^i^m^^mi^^^mm&^^^w^^': 


ROBERT  ERNEST  COWAN 


PERSONAL  EXPERIENCES  ON  THE 

OREGON    TRAIL 

Sixty  Years  Ago 


hy^EZRA   MEEKER 


5lh  Reprint  y 

34000  Copie«  Total     ' 

1912 


.A,--/^ 


Postpaid  30c 


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Early  Days  in  Indiana. 

In  the  early  '50s,  out  four  and  a  half  and  seven 
miles,  respectively,  from  Indianapolis,  Indiana,  there 
lived  two  young  people  witli  their  parents,  who 
were  old-time  farmers  of  the  old  style,  keeping  no 
"hired  man"  nor  buying  many  "store  goods.'"  The 
girl  could  spin  and  weave,  make  delicious  butter, 
knit  soft,  good  shapen  socks,  and  cook  as  good  a 
meal  as  any  other  country  girl  around  about,  and 
was,  withal,  as  buxom  a  lass  as  had  ever  been  "bom 
and   raised   there    (Indiana)    all   her   life." 

These  were  times  when  sugar  sold  for  eighteen 
cents  per  pound,  calico  fifteen  cents  per  yard,  salt 
three  dollars  a  barrel,  and  all  othei  goods  at  cor- 
respondingly high  prices;  while  butter  would  bring 
but  ten  cents  a  pound,  eggs  five  cents  a  dozen,  and 
wheat  but  tv/o  bits  (twenty-five  cents)  a  bushel.  And 
so,  when  these  farmers  went  to  the  market  town 
(Indianapolis)  care  was  taken  to  carry  along  some- 
thing lo  sell,  either  eggs,  or  butter,  or  perhaps  a 
half  dozen  pairs  of  socks,  or  maybe  a  few  yards  of 
home-made  cloth,  as  well  as  some  grain,  or  hay,  or 
a  bit  of  pork,  or  possibly  a  load  of  wood,  to  make 
ends  meet  at  the  store. 

The  young  man  was  a  little  uncouth  in  appear- 
ance, round-faced,  rather  stout  in  build — almost  fat— 
a  little  boisterous,  always  restless,  and  without  a 
very  good  address,  yet  with  at  least  one  redeeming 
trait  of  character — he  loved  his  work  and  was  known 
to  be  as  industrious  a  lad  as  any  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

These  young  people  would  sometime^  meet  at  the 
"Brimstone  meeting-house,"  a  Methodist  church 
known  (far  and  wide)  by  that  name;  so  named  by 
the  unregenerate  because  of  the  open  preaching  ol 
endless  torment  to  follow  non-church  members  and 
sinners  after  death— a  literal  lake  of  fire— taught  with 
vehemence  and  accompanied  by  boisterous  scenes  of 
shouting  by  those  who  were  "saved."  Amid  these 
scenes  and  these  surroundings  these  two  young  peo- 
ple grew  up  to  the  age  of  manhood  and  womanhood. 

—  1  — 

28125S 


knowing  but  little  of  the  world  outside  of  their 
home  sphere — and  who  knows  but  as  happy  as  if 
they  had  seen  the  whole  world?  Had  they  not  ex- 
perienced the  joys  of  the  sugar  camp  while  "stirring 
off"  the  lively  creeping  maple  sugar?  Both  had  been 
thumped  upon  the  bare  head  by  the  falling  hickory 
nuts  in  windy  weather;  had  hunted  the  black  walnuts 
halt  hidden  in  the  leaves;  had  scraped  the  ground 
for  the  elusive  beech  nuts;  had  even  ventured  to 
apple  parings  together,  though  not  yet  out  of  their 
"teens." 

The  lad  hunted  the  'possum  and  the  coon  in  the 
White  River  bottom,  now  the  suburb  of  the  city  of 
Indianapolis,  and  had  cut  even  the  stately  walnut 
trees,  now  so  valuable,  that  the  cunning  coon  might 
be  driven  from  his  hiding  place. 

"I'm   Going  to    Be   a   Farmer. 

"Tm  going  to  be  a  farmer  when  I  get  married/' 
the  young  man  quite  abruptly  said  one  day  to  the 
lass,  without  any  previous  conversation  to  lead  up 
to  such  an  assertion,  to  the  confusion  of  his  com- 
panion, who  could  not  mistake  the  thoughts  that 
prompted  the  words.  A  few  months  later  the  lass 
said,  "Yes,  I  want  to  be  a  farmer,  too,  but  I  want 
to  be  a  farmer  on  our  own  land,"  and  two  bargains 
were  confirmed  then  and  there  when  the  lad  said. 
"We  will  go  West  and  not  live  on  pap's  farm."  "Nor 
in  the  old  cabin,  nor  any  cabin  unless  it's  our  own" 
came  the  response,  and  so  the  resolution  was  made 
that  they  would  go  to  Iowa,  get  some  land  and 
"grow  up  with  the  country." 

Off  For   Iowa. 

About  the  first  week  of  October,  1851,  a  covered 
wagon  drew  up  in  front  of  Thomas  Sumner's  habi- 
tation, then  but  four  miles  out  from  Indianapolis  on 
the  National  road,  ready  to  be  loaded  for  the  start. 
Eliza  Jane,  the  second  daughter  of  that  noble  man, 
the  "lass"  described,  then  the  wife  of  the  young  man 
mentioned,  the  author,  was  ready,  with  cake  and  ap- 

—  2  — 


pie   butter   and   pumpkin    pies,   jellies   and   the   like, 

enough  to  last  the  whole  trip,  and  plenty  of  sub- 
stantial besides.  Not  much  of  a  load  to  be  sure, 
but  it  was  all  we  had;  plenty  of  blankets,  a  good 
sized  Dutch  oven,  and  each  an  extra  pair  of  shoes, 
cloth  for  two  new  dresses  for  the  wife,  and  for  an 
extra  pair  of  trousers  for  the  husband. 

Tears  could  be  restrained  no  longer  as  the  loading 
progressed  and  the  stern  realization  faced  the  par- 
ents of  both  that  the  young  couple  were  about  to 
leave  them. 

"Why,  mother,  we  are  only  going  out  to  Iowa, 
you  know,  where  we  can  get  a  home  that  shall  be 
our  own;  it's  not  so  very  far — only  about  500  miles." 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  suppose  you  get  sick  in  that 
uninhabited  country — who  will   care  for  you?" 

Notwithstanding  this  motherly  solicitude,  the 
young  people  could  not  fail  to  know  that  there  was 
a  secret  feeling  of  approval  in  the  good  woman's 
breast,  and  when,  after  a  few  miles  travel,  the  re- 
luctant final  parting  came,  could  not  then  know 
that  this  loved  parent  would  lay  down  her  life  a 
few  years  later  in  an  heroic  attempt  to  follow  the 
wanderers  to  Oregon,  and  that  her  bones  would  rest 
in  an  unknown  and  unmarked  grave  of  the  Platte 
valley. 

Of  that  October  drive  from  the  home  near  In- 
dianapolis to  Eddyville,  Iowa,  in  the  delicious  (shall 
I  say  delicious,  for  what  other  word  expresses  it?) 
atmosphere  of  an  Indian  summer,  and  in  the  atmo- 
sphere of  hope  and  content;  hope  born  of  aspira- 
tions— content  with  our  lot,  born  of  a  confidence  of 
the  future,  what  shall  I  say?  What  matter  if  we  had 
but  a  few  dollars  in  money  and  but  few  belongings? 
— we  had  the  wide  world  before  us;  we  had  good 
health;  and  before  and  above  all  we  had  each  other, 
and  were  supremely  happy  and  rich  in  our  antici- 
pations. 

When  we  left  Indianapolis — and  cut  loose  from 
that  embryo  city  we  left  railroads  behind  us,  except 
such    as   were   fontid    in    tlic    wagon   track   where   the 

—  3  — 


rails  were  laid  crossways  to  keep  the  wagon  out  of 
the  mud.  What  matter  if  the  road  was  rough?  We 
could  go  a  little  slower,  and  then  wouldn't  we  have 
a  better  appetite  for  our  supper  because  of  the  jolt- 
ing, and  wouldn't  we  sleep  a  little  sounder  for  it? 
And  so  everything  in  all  the  world  looked  bright, 
and  what  little  mishaps  did  befall  us  were  looked 
upon  with  light  hearts,  because  we  realized  that  they 
might  have  been  worse. 

The  great  Mississippi  river  was  crossed  at  Bur- 
lington, or  rather,  we  embarked  several  miles  down 
the  river,  and  were  carried  up  to  the  landing  at 
Burlington,  and  after  a  few  days'  further  driving 
landed  in  Eddyville,  Iowa,  destined  to  be  only  a 
place  to  winter,  and  a  way  station  on  our  route  to 
Oregon. 

An  Iowa  Winter. 

My  first  introduction  to  an  Iowa  winter  was  in  a 
surveyor's  camp  on  the  western  borders  of  the  state, 
a  little  north  of  Kanesville  (now  Council  Bluffs),  as 
cook  of  the  party,  which  position  was  speedily 
changed  and  that  of  flagman  assigned  to  me. 

If  there  are  any  settlers  now  left  of  the  Iowa  of 
that  day  (sixty  years  ago)  they  will  remetn- 
ber  the  winter  was  bitter  cold — the  "coldest  within 
the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant."  On  my  trip 
hack  from  the  surveying  party  above  mentioned  to 
Eddyville,  just  before  Christmas,  I  encountered  one 
of  those  cold  days  long  to  be  remembered.  A  com- 
panion named  Vance  rested  with  me  over  night  in 
i  cabin,  with  scant  food  for  ourselves  or  the  mare 
we  led.  It  was  thirty-five  miles  to  the  next  cabin, 
we  must  reach  that  place  or  lay  out  on  the  snow. 
So  a  very  early  start  was  made — before  daybreak, 
while  the  wind  lay.  The  good  lady  of  the  cabin 
baked  some  biscuit  for  a  noon  lunch,  but  they  were 
frozen  solid  in  our  pockets  before  we  had  been  out 
two  hours  The  wind  rose  with  the  sun,  and  with 
the  sun  two  bright  sun-dogs,  one  on  each  side,  and 
alongside  of  each,  but  slightly  less  bright,  another— 
a  brantiftil  sight  to  behold,  but  arising  from  condi- 

—  4  — 


tions  intolerable  to  bear.  Vance  came  near  freezing 
to  death,  and  would  had  I  not  succeeded  in  arousing 
him  to  anger  and  gotten  him  off  the  mare. 

I  vowed  then  and  there  that  I  did  not  like  the 
Iowa  climate,  and  the  Oregon  fever  was  visibly 
quickened  Besides,  if  I  went  to  Oregon  the  gov- 
ernment would  give  us  320  acres  of  land,  while  in 
Iowa  we  should  have  to  purchase  it — at  a  low  price 
to  be  sure,  but  it  must  be  bought  and  paid  for  on 
the  spot.  There  were  no  preemption  or  beneficent 
homestead  laws  in  force  then,  and  not  until  many 
years  later.  The  country  was  a  wide,  open,  rolling 
prairie — a  beautiful  country  indeed — but  what  about 
a  market?  No  railroads,  no  wagon  roads,  no  cities, 
no  meeting-houses,  no  schools — the  prospect  looked 
drear.  How  easy  it  is  for  one  when  his  mind  is  once 
bent  against  a  country  to  conjure  up  all  sorts  of 
reasons  to  bolster  his,  perhaps  hasty,  conclusions; 
and  so  lown  was  condemned  as  unsuited  to  our 
life  abiding  place. 

But  what  about  going  to  Oregon  when  springtime 
came?  An  interesting  event  was  pending  that  ren- 
dered a  positive  decision  impossible  for  the  moment, 
and  not  until  the  first  week  of  April,  1852,  when 
our  first-born  baby  bov  was  a  month  old.  could  we 
say  that  we  were  going  to  Oregon  in   1852. 

Off  for  Oregon. 

I  have  been  asked  hundreds  of  times  how  many 
wagons  were  in  the  train  I  traveled  with,  and  what 
train  it  was,  and  who  was  the  captain? — assuming 
that,  of  course,  we  must  have  been  with  some  train. 

I  have  invariably  answered,  one  train,  one  wagon, 
and  that  we  had  no  captain.  What  I  meant  by  one 
train  is,  that  I  looked  upon  the  whole  emigration, 
strung  out  on  the  plains  five  hundred  miles,  as  one 
train.  For  long  distances  the  throng  was  so  great 
that  the  road  was  literally  filled  with  wagons  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach.  At  Kanesville  where  the  last 
purchases  were  made,  or  the  last  letter  sent  to  anx- 
ious  friends,    the    congestion    became   so   great    that 

—  5  — 


-6- 


ihe  teams  were  literally  blocked,  and  stood  in  line 
for  hours  before  they  could  get  out  of  the  jam.  Then, 
as  to  a  captain,  we  didn't  think  we  needed  one,  and 
so  when  we  drove  out  of  Eddyville,  there  was  but 
one  wagon  in  our  train,  two  yoke  of  four-year-old 
steers,  one  yoke  of  cows,  and  one  extra  cow.  This 
cow  was  the  only  animal  we  lost  on  the  whole  trip — ■ 
strayed  in  the  Missouri  River  bottom  before  crossing. 

And  now  as  to  the  personnel  of  our  little  parly. 
William  Buck,  who  became  my  partner  for  the  trip, 
was  a  man  six  years  my  senior,  had  had  some  experi- 
ence on  the  Plains,  and  knew  about  the  outfit  needed, 
but  had  no  knowledge  in  regard  to  a  team  of  cattle. 
He  was  an  impulsive  man,  and  to  some  extent  excit- 
able; yet  withal  a  man  of  excellent  judgment  and  as 
honest  as  God  Almighty  makes  men.  No  lazy  bones 
occupied  a  place  in  Buck's  body.  He  was  so  scrupul- 
ously neat  and  cleanly  that  some  might  say  he  was 
fastidious,  but  such  was  not  the  case.  His  aptitude 
for  the  camp  work,  and  unfitness  for  handling. the 
team,  at  once,  as  we  might  say  by  natural  selection, 
divided  the  cares  of  the  household,  sending  the  mar- 
ried man  to  the  range  with  the  team  and  the  bachelor 
to  the  camp.  The  little  wife  was  in  ideal  health, 
and  almost  as  particular  as  Buck  (not  quite  though), 
while  the  young  husband  would  be  a  little  more  on 
the  slouchy  order,  if  the  reader  will  pardon  the  use 
of  that  word,  more  expressive  than  elegant. 

Buck  selected  the  outfit  to  go  into  the  wagon, 
while  I  fitted  up  the  wagon  and  bought  the  team. 

We  had  butter,  packed  in  the  center  of  the  flour 
in  double  sacks;  eggs  packed  in  corn  meal  or  flour, 
to  last  us  nearly  five  hundred  miles;  fruit  in  abund- 
ance, and  dried  pumpkins;  a  little  jerked  beef,  not 
too  salt,  and  last,  though  not  least,  a  demijohn  of 
brandy  for  "medicinal  purposes  only,"  as  Buck  said, 
with  a  merry  twinkle  of  the  eye  that  exposed  the 
subterfuge  which  he  knew  I  understood  without  any 
sign.  The  little  wife  had  prepared  the  home-made 
yeast  cake  which  she  know  so  well  how  to  make  and 
dry,  and  we  had  light  bread  all  the  way,  bc.ked   in 

—  7  — 


a  tin  reflector  instead  of  the  heavy  Dutch  ovens  so 
much  in  use  on  the  Plains. 

Albeit  the  butter  to  a  considerable  extent  melted 
and  mingled  with  the  flour,  yet  we  were  not  much 
disconcerted,  as  the  "short-cake"  that  followed  made 
us  alniosi  glad  tlie  mishap  had  occurred.  Besides, 
did  wc  not  have  plenty  of  fresh  butter,  from  the  milk 
of  our  own  cows,  ciiurned  every  day  in  the  can,  by 
the  jostle  of  the  wagon?  Then  the  buttermilk! 
What  a  luxury!  Yes,  that's  the  word — a  real  lux- 
ury. 1  will  never,  so  long  as  1  live,  forget  that 
short-cake  and  corn-bread,  the  puddings  and  pump- 
km  pics,  and  above  all  the  buttermilk.  The  reader 
who  smiles  at  this  may  well  recall  that  it  is  the 
small  things  that  make  up  the  happiness  of  life. 

But  it  was  more  than  that.  As  we  gradually  crept 
out  on  the  Plains  and  saw  the  sickness  and  suffering 
caused  by  improper  food  and  in  some  cases  from  im- 
proper preparation,  it  gradually  dawned  on  me  how 
blessed  1  was,  with  such  a  partner  as  Buck  and  such 
a  life  partner  as  the  little  wife.  Some  trains,  it 
soon  transpired,  were  without  fruit,  and  most  of  them 
depended  upon  saleratus  for  raising  their  bread. 
Many  had  only  fat  bacon  for  meat  until  the  buffalo 
supplied  a  change;  and  no  doubt  much  of  the  sick- 
ness attributed  to  the  cholera  was  caused  by  an  ill- 
suited  diet. 

I  am  willing  to  claim  credit  for  the  team,  every 
hoof  of  which  reached  the  Coast  in  safety.  Four 
(four-year-old)  steers  and  two  cows  were  sufficient 
for  our  light  wagon  and  light  outfit,  not  a  pound  of 
which  but  was  useful  (except  the  brandy)  and  neces- 
sary for  our  comfort.  Not  one  of  these  steers  had 
ever  been  under  the  yoke,  though  plenty  of  "broke" 
oxen  could  be  had,  but  generally  of  that  class  that 
had  been  broken  in  spirit  as  well  as  in  training,  so 
when  we  got  across  the  Des  Moines  River  with  the 
cattle  strung  out  to  the  wagon  and  Buck  on  the  of? 
side  to  watch,  while  I,  figuratively  speaking,  took  the 
reins  in    hand,   we  may  have   presented  a  ludicrous 

—  8  — 


sight,   but    did  not   have    time   to  think   whether   we 
did  or  not,  and  cared  but  little  so  the  team  would  go. 

First  Day  Out. 

The  first  day's  drive  out  from  Eddyville  was  a 
short  one,  and  so  far  as  I  now  remember  the  only 
one  on  the  entire  trip  where  the  cattle  were  allowed 
to  stand  in  the  yoke  at  noon  while  the  owners 
lunched  and  rested.  I  made  it  a  rule,  no  matter  how 
short  the  noontime,  to  unyoke  and  let  the  cattle 
rest  or  eat  while  we  rested  and  ate,  and  on  the  last 
(1906)    trip  rigidly  adhered  to  that  rule. 

An  amusing  scene  was  enacted  when,  at  near 
nightfall,  the  first  camp  was  made.  Buck  excitedly 
insisted  we  must  not  unyoke  the  cattle.  "Well, 
what  shall  we  do?"  I  asked;  "they  can't  live  in  the 
yoke  always;  we  will  have  to  unyoke  them  some- 
times." 

"Yes,  but  if  you  unyoke  here  you  will  never  catch 
them  again,"  came  the  response.  One  word  brought 
on  another,  until  the  war  of  words  had  almost 
reached  the  stage  of  a  dispute,  when  a  stranger, 
Thomas  McAuley.  who  was  camped  near  by,  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye  I  often  afterwards  saw  and  will 
always  remember,  interfered  and  said  his  cattle  were 
gentle  and  there  were  three  men  of  his  party  and 
that  they  would  help  us  yoke  up  in  the  morning.  T 
gratefully  accepted  his  proffered  help,  speedily  un- 
yoked, and  ever  after  that  never  a  word  with  the 
merest  semblance  of  contention  passed  between  Buck 
and  myself. 

Scanning  McAuley's  outfit  the  next  morning  T 
was  quite  troubled  to  start  out  with  him,  his  teams 
being  light,  principally  cows,  and  thin  in  flesh,  with 
wagons  apparently  light  and  as  frail  as  the  teams. 
But  I  soon  found  that  his  outfit,  like  ours,  carried 
no  extra  weight;  that  he  knew  how  to  care  for  a 
team;  and  was,  withal,  an  obliging  neighbor,  as  was 
fully  demonstrated  on  many  trying  occasions,  as  we 
traveled    in    company    for    more    than    a    thousand 

—  9  — 


miles,  umil  his  road  to  California  parted  from  ours 
at  the  big  bend  of  the  Bear  River. 

Of  the  trip  through  Iowa  little  remains  to  be  said 
further  than  that  the  grass  was  thin  and  washy,  the 
road-^  muddy  and  slippery,  and  weather  execrable, 
although  May  had  been  ushered  in  long  before  we 
reached  the  little  Mormon  town  of  Kanesville  (now 
Council  Bluflfs),  a  few  miles  above  where  we  crossed 
the  Missouri  River. 

Crossing  the  Missouri. 

"What  on  earth  is  that?"  exclaimed  Margaret  Mc- 
Aulcy.  as  we  approached  the  ferry  landing  a  few 
tniles  below  where  Omaha  now  stands. 

"It  looks  for  all  the  world  like  a  great  big  white 
flatiron,"  answered  Eliza,  the  sister,  "doesn't  it,  Mrs. 
Meeker  "  but,  leaving  the  women  folks  to  their 
similes,  we  drivers  turned  our  attention  more  to  the 
teams  as  we  encountered  the  roads  "cut  all  to 
pieces"  on  account  of  the  concentrated  travel  as  we 
neared  the  landing  and  the  solid  phalanx  of  wagons 
that  formed  the  flatiron  of  white  ground. 

We  here  encountered  a  sight  indeed  long  to  be 
remembered.  Tlie  "flatiron  of  white"  that  Eliza  had 
^een  proved  to  be  wagons  with  their  tongues  point- 
ing to  the  landing — a  center  train  with  other  parallel 
tains  extending  back  in  the  rear  and  gradually  cov- 
ering a  wider  range  the  further  back  from  the  river 
one  would  go.  Several  hundred  wagons  were  thus 
closely  interlocked,  completely  blocking  the  approach 
to  the  landing  by  new  arrivals,  whetlier  in  companies 
or  single.  All  around  about  were  camps  of  all  kinds, 
from  those  without  covering  of  any  kind  to  others 
with  comfortable  tents,  nearly  all  seemingly  intent 
on  merrymaking,  while  here  and  there  were  small 
groups  engaged  in  devotional  services.  We  soon 
ascertained  these  camps  contained  the  outfits,  in 
great  part,  of  the  wagons  in  line  in  the  great  white 
flatiron.  some  of  whom  had  been  there  for  two 
weeks  with  no  apparent  probability  of  securing  an 
early    crossing.      At    the    turbulent    river    front   the 

—  10  — 


muddy  walcis  of  the  Missuuri  li;ul  already  swallowed 
up  three  victims,  one  of  whom  1  saw  go  under  the 
drift  of  a  small  island  as  1  stood  near  his  shrieking 
wife  the  first  day  we  were  there.  'J'wo  scows  were 
engaged  in  crossing  liie  wagons  and  teams.  In  this 
case  the  stock  had  rusiied  to  one  side  of  the  boat, 
submerging  the  gunwale,  and  precipitated  the  whole 
contents  into  the  dangerous  river.  One  yoke  of  oxen, 
having  reached  the  farther  shore,  deliberately  en- 
tered the  river  with  a  heavy  yoke  on  and  swam 
to  the  Iowa  side,  and  were  tinally  saved  by  the 
helping  hands  of  the  assembled  emigrants. 

"What  should  we  do?"  was  passed  around,  with- 
out answer.  Tom  McAuley  was  not  yet  looked  upon 
as  a  leader,  as  was  the  case  later.  The  sister  Mar- 
garet, a  most  determined  maiden  lady,  the  oldest  of 
the  party  and  as  resolute  and  brave  as  the  bravest, 
said  to  build  a  boat.  But  of  what  should  we  built 
it?  While  this  question  was  under  consideration  and 
a  search  for  material  made,  one  of  our  party,  who 
had  gotten  across  the  river  in  search  of  timber,  dis- 
covered a  scow,  almost  completely  buried,  on  the 
sandpit  opposite  the  landing,  "only  just  a  small  bit 
of  the  railing  and  a  corner  of  the  boat  visible." 
The  report  seemed  too  good  to  be  true.  The  next 
thing  to  do  was  to  find  the  owner,  which  in  a  search 
of  a  day  we  did,  eleven  miles  down  the  river.  "Yes, 
if  you  will  stipulate  to  deliver  the  boat  safely  to  me 
after  crossing  your  five  wagons  and  teams,  you  can 
have  it,"  said  the  owner,  and  a  bargain  was  closed 
right  then  and  there.  My!  but  didn't  we  make  the 
sand  fly  that  night  from  that  boat?  By  morning  we 
could  begin  to  see  the  end.  Then  busy  hands  began 
to  cut  a  landing  on  the  perpendicular  sandy  bank  on 
the  Iowa  side;  others  were  preparing  sweeps,  and 
all  was  bustle  and  stir  and  one  might  say  excite- 
ment. 

By  this  time  it  had  become  noised  around  that  an- 
other boat  would  be  put  on  to  ferry  people  over, 
and  we  were  besieged  with  applications  from  de- 
tained emigrants.     Finally,  the  word  coming  to  the 

—  11  — 


ears  of  the  ferryman,  they  were  foolish  enough  to 
undertake  to  prevent  us  from  crossing  ourselves.  A 
writ  of  replevin  or  some  other  process  was  issued, 
I  never  knew  exactly  what,  directing  the  sheriff  to 
take  possession  of  the  boat  when  landed,  and  which 
he  attempted  to  do.  1  never  before  nor  since  at- 
tempted to  resist  an  officer  of  the  law,  nor  joined  to 
accomplish  anything  by  force  outside  the  pale  of 
the  law,  but  when  that  sheriff  put  in  an  appearance, 
and  we' realized  what  it  meant,  there  wasn't  a  man 
in  our  party  that  did  not  run  for  his  gun  to  the 
neaiby  camp,  and  it  is  needless  to  add  that  we  did 
not  need  to  use  them.  As  if  by  magic  a  hundred 
guns  were  in  sight.  The  sheriff  withdrew,  and  the 
crossing  went  peaceably  on  till  all  our  wagons  were 
safely  landed.  But  we  had  another  danger  to  face, 
we  learned  that  there  would  be  an  attempt  made 
to  take  the  boat  from  us,  not  as  against  us,  but  as 
against  the  owner,  and  but  for  the  adroit  manage- 
ment of  McAuley  and  my  brother  Oliver  (who  had 
joined  us)  we  would  have  been  unable  to  fulfil  our 
engagements  with  the  owner. 


Out  on  the  Plains. 

When  we  stepped  foot  upon  the  right  bank  of  the 
Missouri  River  we  were  outside  the  pale  of  civil 
law.  We  were  within  the  Indian  country  where  no 
organized  civil  government  existed.  Some  people 
and  some  writers  have  assumed  that  each  man  was 
"a  law  unto  himself  and  free  to  do  his  own  will, 
dependent,  of  course,  upon  his  physical  ability  to 
enforce  it. 

Nothing  could  be  further  from  the  facts  than  this 
assumption,  as  evil-doers  soon  found  out  to  their 
discomfit.  No  general  organization  for  law  and 
order  was  effected,  but  the  American  instinct  for 
fair  play  and  for  a  hearing  prevailed;  so  that  while 
there  was  not  mob  law,  the  law  of  self-preservation 
asserted  itself,  and  the  mandates  of  the  level-headed 
old  men  prevailed;  "a  high  court  from  which  there 

—  12  — 


—  13  — 


was  no  appeal,"  but  ''a  high  couft  ill  the  iuost  ex- 

altcd  sense;  a  senate  composed  of  the  ablest  and 
most  respected  fathers  of  the  emigration,  exercising 
both  legislaiivc  and  judicial  power;  and  its  laws  and 
decisions  proved  equal  to  any  worthy  of  the  high 
trust  reposed  in  it,"  so  tersely  described  by  Apple- 
gale  as  to  conditions  when  the  first  great  train 
moved  out  on  the  Plains  in  1843,  that  1  quote  his 
words  as  describing  conditions  in  1852.  There  was 
tliis  difference,  however,  in  the  emigration  of  1843 — 
all,  by  agreement,  belonged  to  one  or  the  other  of 
the  two  companies,  the  "cow  column"  or  the  "light 
brigade,"  while  with  the  emigrants  of  1852  it  is  safe 
to  say  that  more  than  half  did  not  belong  to  large 
companies,  or  one  might  say  any  organized  company. 
But  this  made  no  dilt'crence,  for  when  an  occasion 
called  for  action  a  "high  court"  was  convened,  and 
woe-betide  the  man  that  would  undertake  to  defy 
us  mandates  after  its  deliberations  were  made  public. 
One  incident,  well  up  on  the  Sweetwater,  will  il- 
lustrate the  spirit  of  determination  of  the  sturdy 
old  men  (elderly,  1  should  say,  as  no  young  men 
were  allowed  to  sit  in  these  councils)  of  the  Plains, 
while  laboring  under  stress  of  grave  personal  cares 
and  with  many  personal  bereavements.  A  murder 
had  been  committed,  and  it  was  clear  that  the  mo- 
tive was  robbery.  The  suspect  had  a  large  fam- 
ily, and  was  traveling  along  with  the  moving  col- 
umn. Men  had  volunteered  to  search  for  the  miss- 
ing man  and  finally  found  the  proof  pointing  to  the 
guiit  of  the  suspect.  A  council  of  twelve  men  was 
called  and  deliberated  until  the  second  day,  mean- 
while holding  the  murderer  safely  within  their  grip. 
What  were  they  to  do?  Here  was  a  wife  and  four 
little  children  depending  upon  this  man  for  their 
lives;  what  would  become  of  his  family  if  justice 
was  meted  out  to  him?  Soon  there  came  an  under- 
current of  what  might  be  termed  public  opinion — 
that  it  was  probably  better  to  forego  punishment 
than  to  endanger  the  lives  of  the  family;  but  the 
council   would  not  be   swerved  from  its  resolution, 

-14  — 


and  at  sundown  of  the  third  day  the  criminal  was 
hung  in  the  presence  of  the  whole  camp,  including 
the  family,  but  not  until  ample  provisions  had  been 
made  to  insure  the  safety  of  the  family  by  provid- 
ing a  driver  to  finish  the  journey.  T  came  so  near 
seeing  this  that  I  did  see  the  ends  of  the  wagon 
tongues  in  the  air  and  the  rope  dangling  therefrom, 
but  I  have  forgotten  the  names  of  the  parties,  and 
even  if  1  had  not,  would  be  loath  to  make  them 
public. 

From  necessity,  murder  was  punishable  with 
death;  but  stealing,  by  a  tacit  understanding,  with 
whipping,  which,  when  inflicted  by  one  of  those 
long  ox  lashes  in  the  hands  of  an  expert,  would 
bring  the  blood  from  the  victim's  back  at  every 
stroke.  Minor  offenses,  or  differences  generally, 
took  the  form  of  arbitration,  the  decision  of  which 
each  party  would  abide  by,  as  if  emanating  from  a 
court  of  law. 

Lawlessness  was  not  common  on  the  Plains,  no 
more  so  than  in  the  communities  from  which  the 
great  body  of  the  emigrants  had  been  drawn;  in  fact, 
not  so  much  so,  as  punishment  was  swift  and  cer- 
tain, and  that  fact  had  its  deterrent  effect.  But  the 
great  body  of  the  emigrants  were  a  law-abiding 
people  from  law-abiding  communities. 

And  now  as  to  our  mode  of  travel.  I  did  not  enter 
an  organized  company,  neither  could  I  travel  alone. 
Four  wagons,  with  nine  men,  by  tacit  agreement, 
traveled  together  for  a  thousand  miles,  and  sepa- 
rated only  when  our  roads  parted,  the  one  to  Cali- 
fornia, the  other  to  Oregon.  And  yet  we  were  all 
the  while  in  one  great  train,  never  out  of  sight  or 
hearing  of  others.  Tn  fact,  at  times,  the  road  would 
be  so  full  of  wagons  that  all  could  not  travel  in  one. 
track,  and  this  fact  accounts  for  the  double  road- 
beds seen  in  so  many  places  on  the  trail.  One  of  the 
party  always  went  ahead  to  look  out  for  water, 
grass  and  fuel,  three  requisites  for  a  camping  place. 
The  grass  along  the  beaten  track  was  always  eaten 
off  close   by  the   loose   stock,  of  which   there  were 

—  15  — 


great  numbers,  and  so  we  had  frequently  to  take  the 
cattle  long  distances  from  camp.  Then  came  the 
most  trying  part  of  the  whole  trip — the  all-night 
watch,  which  resulted  in  our  making  the  cattle  our 
bed-fellows,  back  to  back  for  warmth;  for  signal 
as  well,  to  get  up  if  the  ox  did.  It  was  not  long, 
though,  till  we  were  used  to  it,  and  slept  quite  a 
bit  except  when  a  storm  struck  us;  well,  then,  to 
say  the  least,  it  was  not  a  pleasure  outing.  But 
weren't  we  glad  when  the  morning  came,  with,  per- 
chance, the  smoke  of  the  campfire  in  sight,  and  may- 
be, as  wc  approached,  we  could  catch  the  aroma 
of  the  coffee :  and  then  such  tender  greetings  and 
Mich  thoughtful  care  that  would  have  touched  a 
heart  of  stone,  and  to  us  seemed  like  a  paradise. 
W'c  were  supremely  happy. 

People,  too.  often  brought  their  own  ills  upon 
themselves  by  their  indiscreet  action,  especially  in 
the  loss  of  their  teams.  The  trip  had  not  pro- 
gressed far  until  there  came  a  universal  outcry 
against  the  heavy  loads  and  unnecessary  articles, 
and  soon  we  began  to  see  abandoned  property.  First 
it  might  be  a  table  or  a  cupboard,  or  perhaps  a 
bedstead  or  a  heavy  cast-iron  cookstove.  Then 
began  to  be  seen  bedding  by  the  wayside,  feather 
beds,  blankets,  quilts,  pillows — everything  of  the 
kind  that  mortal  man  might  want.  And  so,  very 
<;oon  here  and  there  an  abandoned  wagon  could 
he  seen,  provisions,  stacks  of  flour  and  bacon  being 
the  most  abundant — all  left  as  common  property. 
Help  vourself  if  you  will;  no  one  will  interfere; 
and.  in  fact,  in  some  places  a  sign  was  posted  in- 
viting all  to  take  what  they  wanted.  Hundreds  of 
'^agons  were  left  and  hundreds  of  tons  of  goods. 
People  seemed  to  vie  with  each  other  to  give 
away  their  property,  there  being  no  chance  to  sell, 
and  they  disliked  to  destroy.  Long  after  the  matiia 
for  cetMne  rid  of  goods  and  lightening  the  load. 
»he  abandonment  of  wagons  continued,  as  the  teams 
became  weaker  and  the  ravages  of  cholera  struck 
n<:.      It    was   then    that    many   lost    their    heads    and 

—  16  — 


ruined  their  teams  by  furious  driving,  by  lack  of 
care,  and  by  abuse.  There  came  a  veritable  stam- 
pede— a  strife  for  possession  of  the  road,  to  sec 
who  should  get  ahead.  Whole  trains  (often  with 
bad  blood)  would  strive  for  the  mastery  of  the 
road,  one  attempting  to  pass  the  other,  frequently 
with  drivers  on  each  side  the  team  to  iiruc  the 
poor,  suffering  dumb  brutes  forward. 

"What  shall  we  do?"  passed  from  one  to  another 
in  our  little  family  council. 

"Now,  fellers."  said  McAuIey,  "don't  lose  your 
heads,  but  do  just  as  you  have  been  doing;  you 
gals,  just  make  your  bread  as  light  as  ever,  and 
we'll  boil  the  water  and  take  river  water  the  same 
as  ever,  even  if  it  is  almost  as  thick  as  mud." 

We  had  all  along  refused  to  "dig  little  wells 
near  the  banks  of  the  Platte,"  as  many  others  did. 
having  soon  learned  that  the  water  obtained  was 
strongly  charged  with  alkali,  while  the  river  water 
was  comparatively  pure,  other  than  the  fine  impal- 
pable sediment,  so  fine  as  to  seemingly  be  held  in 
solution. 

"Keep  cool,"  he  continued;  "maybe  we'll  have  tn 
lay  down,  and  maybe  not.  .Anyway,  it's  no  use 
frettin'.  What's  to  be  will  be,  'specially  if  we  but 
help  things  along." 

This  homely  yet  wise  counsel  fell  upon  willing 
ears,  as  most  all  were  already  of  the  same  mind: 
and  we  did  "just  as  we  had  been  doing,"  and  es- 
caped unharmed. 

T  look  back  on  that  party  of  nine  men  and  three 
women  (and  a  baby),  with  four  wagons,  with  feel- 
ing? almost  akin  to  reverence. 

Thomas  McAuley  became  by  natural  selection  the 
leader  of  the  party,  although  no  agreement  of  _  the 
kind  was  ever  made.  He  was.  next  to  his  maideji 
sister,  the  oldest  of  the  party,  a  most  fearless  man. 
who  never  lost  his  head,  whatever  the  emergency, 
and  I  have  been  in  some  pretty  tight  places  with 
him.  While  he  was  the  oldest,  I  was  the  youngest^ 
of  the  men  folks  of  the  party,  and  the  only  married 

—  17  — 


man  of  the  lot,  and  if  I  do  have  to  say  it,  the 
strongest  and  ablest  to  bear  the  brunt  of  the  work 
(pardon  me,  reader,  when  I  add,  and  willing  accord- 
ing to  my  strength,  for  it  is  true),  and  so  we  got 
along  well  together  until  the  parting  of  the  way 
came.  This  spirit,  though,  pervaded  the  whole  camp 
both  with  the  men  and  women  folks  to  the  end. 
Thomas  McAuley  still  lives,  at  Hobart  Hills,  Cali- 
fornia, or  did  a  few  years  ago  when  I  last  heard  from 
him,  a  respected  citizen.  He  has  long  since  passed 
the  eighty-year  mark,  and  has  not  "laid  down"  yet. 

Did  space  but  permit  I  would  like  to  tell  more  in 
detail  of  the  members  of  that  little  happy  party 
(family  we  called  ourselves)  camped  near  the  bank 
of  the  Platte  when  the  fury  of  that  great  epidemic 
— cholera — burst  upon  us,  but  I  can  only  make  brief 
mention.  William  Buck — one  of  Nature's  noblemen 
— has  long  ago  "laid  down."  Always  scrupulously 
neat  and  cleanly,  always  ready  to  cater  to  the  wants 
of  his  companions  and  as  honest  as  the  day  is 
long,  he  has  ever  held  a  tender  place  in  my  heart. 
It  was  Ruck  that  selected  our  nice  little  outfit,  com- 
plete in  every  part,  so  that  we  did  not  throw  away 
a  pound  of  provisions  nor  need  to  purchase  any.  The 
water  can  was  in  the  wagon,  of  sufficient  capacity 
to  supply  our  wants  for  a  day.  and  a  "sup"  for  the 
oxen  and  cows  besides.  The  milk  can  in  the  wagon 
always  yielded  its  lump  of  butter  at  night,  churned 
by  the  movement  of  the  wagon  from  the  surplus 
morning's  milk.  The  yeast  cake  so  thoughtfully  pro- 
vided by  the  little  wife  ever  brought  forth  sweet, 
light  bread  baked  in  that  tin  reflector  before  the 
"chip"  (buffalo)  fire.  That  reflector  and  those  yeast 
rakes  were  a  great  factor  conducive  to  our  health. 
Small  things,  to  be  sure,  but  great  as  to  results. 
Instead  of  saleratus  biscuit,  bacon  and  beans,  we 
had  the  light  bread  and  fruit,  with  fresh  meats  and 
rice  pudding,  far  out  on  the  Plains,  until  our  supply 
of  eggs  became  exhausted. 

Of  the  remainder  of  the  party,  brother  Oliver  "laid 
down"  fifty  years  ago,  but  his  memory  is  still  green 

—  18  — 


in  the  hearts  of  all  who  knew  him.  Margaret  Mc- 
Auley  died  a  few  years  after  reaching  California. 
Like  her  brother,  she  was  resolute  and  resourceful, 
and  almost  like  a  mother  to  the  younger  sister  and 
the  young  wife  and  baby.  And  such  a  baby!  If 
one  were  to  judge  by  the  actions  of  all  the  mem- 
bers of  that  camp,  the  conclusion  would  be  reached 
there  was  no  other  baby  on  earth.  All  seemed  re- 
joiced to  know  there  was  a  baby  in  camp;  young 
(only  seven  weeks  old  when  we  started)  but  strong 
and  grew  apace  as  the  higher  altitude  was  reached 

Eliza,  the  younger  sister,  a  type  of  the  healthy, 
handsome  American  girl,  graceful  and  modest,  be- 
came the  center  of  attraction  upon  which  a  ro- 
mance might  be  written,  but  as  the  good  elderly  lady 
still  lives,  the  time  has  not  yet  come,  and  so  we  must 
draw  the  veil. 

Of  the  two  Davenport  brothers,  Jacob,  the  young 
est,  becaine  ill  at  Soda  Springs,  was  confined  to  the 
wagon  for  more  than  seven  hundred  miles  down 
Snake  River  in  that  intolerable  dust,  and  finally 
died   soon   after   we   arrived   in    Portland. 

John,  the  elder  brother,  always  fretful,  but  will- 
ing to  do  his  part,  has  passed  out  of  my  knowl- 
edge. Both  came  of  respected  parents  on  an  adjoin- 
ing farm  to  that  of  my  own  home  near  Indianapolis, 
but  I  have  lost  all  trace  of  him. 

Perhaps  the  general  reader  may  not  take  even  a 
passing  interest  in  this  little  party  (family)  here  de- 
scribed. I  can  only  say  that  this  was  typical  of  many 
on  the  Trail  of  '52.  The  McAuleys  or  Buck  and  oth- 
ers of  our  party  could  be  duplicated  in  larger  or 
smaller  parties  all  along  the  line.  There  were  hun- 
dreds of  noble  men  trudging  up  the  Platte  at  that 
time  in  an  army  over  five  hundred  miles  long,  many 
of  whom  "laid  down,"  a  sacrifice  to  their  duty,  or 
maybe  to  inherent  weakness  of  their  system.  While 
it  is  true  such  experience  brings  out  the  worst  fea- 
tures of  individual  characters,  yet  it  is  also  true 
that  the  shining  virtues  come  to  the  front  likewise; 
like  pure  gold,  they  are  found  where  least  expected. 

—  19  — 


Of  the  fortitude  of  the  wottieti  one  eatitiat  say  too 

much.  Embarrassed  at  the  start  by  the  follies  of 
fashion  (and  long  dresses  which  were  quickly  dis- 
carded and  the  bloomer  donned),  they  soon  rose  to 
the  occasion  and  cast  false  modesty  aside.  Could 
we  but  have  had  the  camera  (of  course  not  then  in 
existence)  trained  on  one  of  those  typical  camps, 
what  a  picture  there  would  be.  Elderly  matrons 
dressed  almost  like  the  little  sprite  miss  of  tender 
years  of  today.  The  younger  women  were  rather 
shy  of  accepting  the  inevitable,  but  finally  fell  into 
the  procession,  and  we  had  a  community  of  women 
wearing  bloomers  without  invidious  comment,  or,  in 
fact,  any  comment  at  all.  Some  of  them  went  bare- 
foot or  wore  moccasins,  partly  from  choice  and  in 
some  cases  from  necessity.  The  same  could  be  said 
of  the  men,  as  shoe  leather  began  to  grind  out  from 
the  sand  and  dry  heat.  Of  all  the  fantastic  costumes 
it  is  safe  to  say  the  like  was  never  seen  before,  and 
probably  never  will  again.  The  scene  beggars  de- 
scription. Patches  became  visible  upon  the  cloth- 
ing of  preachers  as  well  as  laymen;  the  situations 
brooked  no  respecter  of  persons.  The  grandmoth- 
er's cap  was  soon  displaced  by  a  handkerchief  or 
perhaps  a  bit  of  cloth.  Grandfather's  high  crowned 
hat  disappeared  as  if  by  magic.  Hatless  and  boot- 
less men  became  a  common  sight.  Bonnetless  wom- 
en were  to  be  seen  on  all  sides.  They  wore  what 
they  had  left  or  could  get,  without  question  as  to 
the  fitness  of  things.  Rich  dresses  were  worn  by 
some  ladies  because  they  had  no  others;  the  gentle- 
men drew  upon  their  wardrobes  until  scarcely  a  fine 
unsoiled  suit  was  left. 

The  dust  has  been  spoken  of  as  intolerable.  The 
word  hardly  expresses  the  situation;  in  fact,  the 
English  language  contains  no  words  to  properly  ex- 
press it.  Here  was  a  moving  mass  of  humanity  and 
dumb  brutes,  at  times  mixed  in  inextricable  confu- 
sion, a  hundred  feet  wide  or  more.  Sometimes  two 
columns  of  wagons  traveling  on  parallel  lines  and 
near  each  other  would  serve  as  a  barrier  to  prevent 

—  20  — 


loose  stock  from  crossing;  but  usually  there  would 
be  a  confused  mass  of  cows,  young  cattle,  horses, 
and  footmen  moving  along  the  outskirts.  Here  and 
there  would  be  the  drivers  of  loose  stock,  some  on 
foot  and  some  on  horseback; — a  young  girl,  maybe, 
riding  astride,  with  a  younger  child  behind,  going; 
here  and  there  after  an  intractible  cow,  while  the 
mother  could  be  seen  m  the  confusion  lending  a 
helping  hand.  As  in  a  thronged  city  street,  no  one 
seemed  to  look  to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  or  to  pay 
much,  if  any,  attention  to  others,  but  bent  alone  on 
accomplishing  the  task  in  hand.  Over  all,  in  calm 
weather  at  times,  the  dust  would  settle  so  thick 
that  the  lead  team  of  oven  could  not  be  seen  from 
the  wagon — like  a  London  fog,  so  thick  one  might 
almost  cut  it.*  Then  again,  at  certain  intervals, 
that  steady  flow  of  wind  up  to  and  through  the  South 
Pass  would  hurl  the  dust  and  sand  in  one's  face 
sometimes  with  force  enough  to  sting  from  the  im- 
pact upon  the  face  and  hands. 

Then  we  had  storms  that  were  not  of  sand  and 
wind  alone; — storms  that  only  a  Platte  Valley  in 
summer  or  a  Puget  Sound  winter  might  turn  out; — 
storms  that  would  wet  one  to  the  skin  in  less  time 
than  it  takes  to  write  this  sentence.  One  such  I  re- 
member being  caught  in  while  out  on  watch.  The 
cattle  traveled  so  fast  it  was  difficult  to  keep  up 
with  them.  I  could  do  nothing  else  than  follow, 
as  it  would  have  been  as  impossible  to  turn  them  as 
it  would  to  change  the  direction  of  the  wind.  I  have 
always  thought  of  this  as  a  cloudburst.  Anyway, 
there  was  not  a  dry  thread  left  on  me  in  an  incredi- 

*The  author  spent  four  winters  in  London  on  the 
world's  hop  market,  and  perhaps  has  a  more  vivid 
recollection  of  what  is  meant  by  a  London  fog  than 
would  be  understood  by  the  general  reader.  I  have 
seen  the  fog  and  smoke  there  so  black  that  one 
could  not  see  his  hand  held  at  arm's  length,  and  it 
reminded  me  of  some  scenes  in  the  dust  on  the 
Plains. 

-21  — 


bly  shori  lime.  My  boots  were  as  full  of  water  as 
if  I  had  been  wailing  over  boot-top  deep,  and  the 
water  ran  through  my  hat  as  though  it  was  a  sieve, 
almost  blinding  we  in  the  fury  ot  wind  and  water. 
Many  tents  were  leveled,  and,  in  fact,  such  occur- 
rences as  fallen   tents  were  not  uncommon. 

One  of  our  neighboring  trains  suffered  no  incon- 
siderable loss  by  the  sheets  of  water  on  the  ground, 
floating  tlieir  camp  equipage,  ox  yokes,  and  all  loose 
articles  away;  and  they  only  narrowly  'escaped 
having  a  wagon  engulfed  in  the  ragmg  torrent  that 
came  so  unexpectedly  upon  them.  Such  were  some 
uf  the  discomforts  on  the  Plains  in  '52. 

Trouble  with  the  Indians. 

As  soon  as  a  part  of  our  outfits  were  landed  on 
the  right  bank  of  the  river  our  trouble  with  the  In- 
dians began,  not  in  open  hostilities,  but  in  robbery 
under  the  guise  of  beggary.  The  word  had  been 
passed  around  in  our  little  party  that  not  one  cent's 
worth  of  provisions  would  we  give  up  to  the  Indians, 
— believing  this  policy  was  our  only  safeguard  from 
spoliation,  and  in  that  we  were  right.  The  women 
folks  had  been  taken  over  the  river  with  the  first 
wagon,  and  sent  off  a  little  way  to  a  convenient 
camp,  so  that  the  first  show  of  arms  came  from 
that  side  of  our  little  community,  when  some  of 
the  bolder  Pawnees  attempted  to  pilfer  around  the 
wagons.  But  no  blood  was  shed,  and  I  may  say 
in  passing  there  was  none  shed  by  any  of  our  party 
during  the  entire  trip,  though  there  was  a  show  of 
arms  in  several  instances.  One  case  in  particular 
1  remember.  Soon  after  we  had  left  the  Missouri 
River  we  came  to  a  small  bridge  over  a  washout 
across  the  road,  evidently  constructed  very  recently 
by  some  train  just  ahead  of  us.  The  Indians  had 
taken  possession  and  demanded  pay  for  crossing. 
Some  ahead  of  us  had  paid,  while  others  were  hesi- 
tating, but  with  a  few  there  was  a  determined  reso- 
lution not  to  pay.  When  our  party  came  up  it  re- 
mained for  that  fearless  man,  McAuley,  in  quite  short 

—  22- 


order  to  clear  the  way  though  the  Indians  were 
there  in  considerable  numbers.  McAuley  said,  "You 
fellers  come  right  on,  for  I'm  going  across  that 
bridge  if  I  have  to  run  right  over  that  Ingen  settin' 
there."  And  he  did  almost  run  over  the  Indian,  who 
at  the  last  moment  got  out  of  the  way  of  his  team, 
which  was  followed  in  such  quick  succession  and 
with  such  a  show  of  arm.s  that  the  Indians  with- 
drew, and  left  the  road  unobstructed. 

In  another  instance,  I  came  very  near  getting  into 
serious  trouble  with  three  Indians  on  horseback.  We 
had  hauled  oflf  away  from  the  road  to  get  water,  I 
think,  and  became  separated  from  the  passing  throng, 
and  almost,  hut  not  quite  out  of  sight  of  any  wagons 
or  camps.  The  Indians  came  up  ostensibly  to  beg, 
but  really  to  rob,  and  first  began  to  solicit,  and 
afterwards  to  threaten.  I  started  to  drive  on.  not 
thinking  they  would  use  actual  violence,  as  there 
were  other  emigrants  certainly  within  a  half-mile, 
and  thought  they  were  merely  trying  to  frighten 
me  into  giving  up  at  least  a  part  of  my  outfit. 
Finally  one  of  the  Indians  whipped  out  his  knife 
and  cut  loose  the  cow  that  T  was  leading  behind  the 
wagon.  I  did  not  have  to  ask  for  my  gun,  as  my 
courageous  wife  in  the  wagon,  who  had  seen  the 
act,  believed,  as  I  did,  that  the  time  had  come  to 
fight,  and  handed  me  my  trusty  rifle  out  under  the 
cover,  and  before  the  savages  had  time  to  do  any- 
thing further  they  saw  the  gun.  They  were  near 
enough  to  make  it  certain  that  one  shot  would 
lake  deadly  effect,  but  instead  of  shooting  one,  I 
trained  the  gun  in  the  direction  so  I  might  quickly 
choose  between  the  three,  and  in  an  instant  each 
Indian  was  imder  cover  on  his  horse,  and  speeding 
away  in  great  haste.  The  old  story  that  "almost 
anyone  will  fight  when  cornered"  was  exemplified 
in  this  incident,  but  I  did  not  want  any  more  such 
experiences  and  consequently  thereafter  became 
more  careful. 

We  did  not,  however,  have  much  trouble  with  the 
Indians  in  1852.    The  facts  are,  the  great  numbers  of 

—  23  — 


emigrants,  coupled  with  the  superiority  of  their 
arms,  placed  them  on  comparatively  safe  grounds. 
And  it  must  be  remembered,  also,  that  this  was  be- 
fore the  treaty-making  period,  which  has  so  often 
been  followed  by  bloodshed  and  war. 

But  to  return  to  the  river  bank.  We  crossed  on 
the  17th  and  18th  of  May,  and  drove  out  a  short 
way  on  the  19th,  but  not  far  enough  to  be  out  of 
hearing  of  a  shrill  steamboat  whistle  that  resounded 
over  the  prairie,  announcing  the  arrival  of  a  steamer. 

T  never  knew  the  size  of  that  steamer,  or  the 
name,  but  only  know  that  a  dozen  or  more  wagons 
could  be  crossed  at  once,  and  that  a  dozen  or  more 
trips  could  be  made  during  the  day,  and  as  many 
more  at  night,  and  that  wc  were  overtaken  by  this 
throng  of  a  thousand  wagons  thrown  upon  the  road, 
that  pave  us  some  trouble  and  much  discomfort. 

Outbreak  of  Cholera. 

And  now  that  we  were  fairly  on  the  way  the 
whole  atmosphere,  so  to  speak,  seemed  changed. 
Instead  of  the  discordant  violin  and  more  discordant 
voices,  with  the  fantastic  night  open  air  dances  with 
mother  earth  as  a  floor,  there  soon  prevailed  a 
more  sober  mein,  even  among  the  young  people,  as 
they  began  to  encounter  the  fatigue  of  a  day's  drive 
and  the  cares  of  a  night  watch.  With  so  many,  the 
watchword  was  to  push  ahead  and  make  as  big  a 
day's  drive  as  possible;  hence  it  is  not  to  be  won- 
dered at  that  nearly  the  whole  of  the  thousand 
wagons  that  crossed  the  river  after  we  did  soon 
passed  us. 

"Now,  fellers,  jist  let  'em  rush  on,  and  keep  cool, 
we'll  overcatch  them  afore  long,"  said  McAuIey.  And 
we  did,  and  passed  many  a  broken-down  team,  the 
result  of  that  first  few  days  of  rush.  It  was  this 
class  that  unloaded  such  piles  of  provisions,  noted 
elsewhere,  in  the  first  two  hundred  mile  stretch,  and 
thatfell  such  easy  prey  to  the  ravages  of  the  epi- 
demic of  cholera  that  struck  the  moving  column 
where  the  throng  from  the  south  side  of  the  Platte 

—  24  — 


began  crossing.  As  I  recollect  this,  it  must  have 
been  near  where  the  city  of  Kearney  now  stands, 
which  is  about  two  hundred  miles  west  of  the  Mis- 
souri River.  We  had  been  in  the  buflfalo  country 
several  days,  and  some  of  our  young  men  had  had 
the  keen  edge  of  the  hunting  zeal  worn  off  by  a 
day's  ride  in  the  heat.  A  number  of  them  were 
sick  from  the  effects  of  overheating  and  indiscreet 
drinking  of  impure  water.  Such  an  experience  came 
vividly  home  to  me  in  the  case  of  my  brother  Oliver, 
who  had  outhtted  with  our  Hoosier  friends  near 
Indianapolis,  but  had  crossed  the  Missouri  River  in 
company  with  us.  Being  of  an  adventurous  spirit, 
he  could  not  restrain  his  ardor,  and  gave  chase  to 
the  buffaloes,  and  fell  sick  almost  unto  death.  This 
occurred  just  at  the  time  when  we  had  encountered 
the  cholera  panic,  and  of  course  it  must  be  the 
cholera  that  had  seized  him  with  such  an  iron  grip, 
argued  some  of  his  companions.  His  old-time  com- 
rades and  neighbors,  all  but  two,  said  they  could  not 
delay.  I  said,  "It's  certain  death  to  take  him  along 
in  that  condition,"  which  they  admitted  was  true. 
"Divide  the  outfit,  then."  The  Davenport  boys  said 
they  would  not  leave  my  brother,  and  so  their  por- 
tion of  the  outfit  was  put  out  also,  which  gave  the 
three  a  wagon  and  team.  Turning  to  Buck,  I  said, 
"I  can't  ask  you  to  stay  with  me.''  The  answer 
came  back  quick  as  a  flash,  "I  am  going  to  stay 
with  you  without  asking,"  and  he  did,  too,  though 
my  brother  was  almost  a  total  stranger.  VVe  nursed 
the  sick  man  for  four  days  amidst  scenes  of  excite- 
ment and  death  I  hope  never  to  witness  again,  with 
the  result  that  on  the  fifth  day  we  were  able  to  go 
on  and  take  the  convalescent  with  us  and  thus  saved 
his  life.  It  was  at  this  point  the  sixteen  hundred 
wagons  passed  us  as  noted  elsewhere  in  the  four 
days'  detention,  and  loose  stock  so  numerous,  we 
made  no  attempt  to  count  them. 

Of  course,  this  incident  is  of  no  particular  impor- 
tance, except  to  illustrate  what  life  meant  in  those 
strenuous   days.     The  experience  of  that  camp  was 

—  25  — 


ilie  experience,  1  may  say,  of  hundreds  of  others; 
of  friends  parting;  of  desertion;  of  noble  sacrifice; 
of  the  revelation  of  the  best  and  worst  of  the  inner 
man.  Like  the  shifting  clouds  of  a  brightening  sum- 
mer day,  the  organized  trains  seemed  to  dissolve  and 
disappear,  while  no  one,  apparently,  knew  what  had 
become  of  their  component  parts,  or  whither  they 
had  gone. 

There  did  seem  instances  that  would  convert  the 
most  skeptical  to  the  Presbyterian  doctrine  of  total 
depravity,  so  brutal  and  selfish  were  the  actions  of 
some  men;  brutal  to  men  and  women  alike;  to  dumb 
brutes,  and  in  fact  to  themselves.  And,  yet,  it  is  a 
pleasure  to  record  that  there  were  numerous  in- 
stances of  noble  self-sacrifice,  of  helpfulness,  of  use- 
fulness, to  the  point  of  imperiling  their  own  lives. 
It  became  a  common  saying  to  know  one's  neigh- 
bors, they  must  be  seen  on  the  plains. 

The  army  of  loose  stock  that  accompanied  this 
huge  caravan,  a  column,  we  may  almost  say,  of  five 
hundred  miles  long  without  break,  added  greatly 
to  the  discomfort  of  all.  Of  course,  the  number  ot 
cattle  and  horses  will  never  be  known,  but  their 
number  was  legion  compared  to  those  that  labored 
under  the  yoke,  or  in  the  harness.  A  conservative 
estimate  would  be  not  less  than  six  animals  to  the 
wagon,  and  surely  there  were  three  times  as  many 
loose  animals  to  each  one  in  the  teams.  By  this 
it  would  appear  that  as  sixteen  hundred  wagons 
passed  while  we  tarried  four  days,  nearly  ten  thou- 
sand beasts  of  burden  and  thitry  thousand  loose 
stock  accompanied  them.  As  to  the  number  of  per- 
sons, certainly  there  were  five  to  the  wagon,  per- 
haps more,  but  calling  it  five,  eight  thousand  peo- 
ple, men,  women  and  children,  passed  on  during 
those  four  days — many  to  their  graves  not  afar 
off. 

We  know  by  the  inscribed  dates  found  on  Inde- 
pendence Rock  and  elsewhere  that  there  were  wa- 
gons full  three  hundred  miles  ahead  of  us.  The 
throng  had   continued  to  pass  the  river  more  than 

—  26  — 


a  month  after  we  had  crossed,  so  that  it  does  not 
require  a  stretch  of  the  imagination  to  say  the  col- 
umn was  five  liundred  miles  long,  and  like  Sherman's 
march   through  Georgia,  fifty  thousand  strong. 

Of  the  casualties  in  that  mighty  army  I  scarcely 
dare  guess.  It  is  certain  that  history  gives  no 
record  of  such  great  numbers  migrating  so  long  a 
distance  as  that  of  the  Pioneers  of  the  Plains,  where, 
the  dead  lay  in  rows  of  fifties  and  groups  of  sev- 
enties. Shall  we  say  ten  per  cent  fell  by  the  wayside? 
Many  will  exclaim  that  estimate  is  too  low.  Ten 
per  cent  would  give  us  five  thousand  sacrifices  of 
lives  laid  down  even  in  one  year  to  aid  in  the  eflFort 
to  recover  the  great  empire,  the  Oregon  country. 
The  roll-call  was  never  made,  and  we  know  not 
how  many  there  were.  The  list  of  mortalities  is  un- 
known, and  so  we  are  lost  in  conjecture,  and  now  we 
only  know  that  the  unknown  and  unmarked  graves 
have  gone  into  oblivion. 

Volumes  could  be  written  of  life  on  the  Plains  and 
yet  leave  the  story  not  half  told.  In  some  manu- 
script before  me  I  read,  "found  a  family,  consisting 
of  husband,  wife  and  four  small  children,  whose  cat- 
tle we  supposed  had  given  out  and  died.  They  were 
here  all  alone,  and  no  wagon  or  cattle  in  sight" — had 
been  thrown  out  by  the  owner  of  a  wagon  and  left 
on  the  road  to  die.  In  a  nearby  page  I  read,  "Here 
we  met  Mr.  Lot  Whitcom,  direct  from  Oregon — . 
Told  me  a  great  deal  about  Oregon.  He  has  pro- 
visions, but  none  to  sell,  but  gives  to  all  he  finds  in 
want,  and  who  are  unable  to  buy."  These  stories  of 
the  good  Samaritan,  and  the  fiendish  actions  of 
others  could  be  multiplied  indefinitely,  but  I  quote 
only  extracts  from  these  two,  written  on  the  spot, 
that  well  illustrates  the  whole. 

Mrs.  Cecelia  Emily  McMillen  Adams,  late  of 
Hillsboro,  Oregon,  crossed  the  Plains  in  1852,  and 
kept  a  painstaking  daily  diary,  and  noted  the  graves 
passed,  and  counted  them.  Her  diary  is  published 
in  full  by  the  Oregon  Pioneer  Association,  1904.  I 
note  the  following:  "Juno  fourteenth.     Passed  seven 

—  27  — 


new  made  graves.  June  15th.  Sick  headache,  not 
able  to  sit  up.  June  16th.  Passed  11  new  graves. 
June  17th.  Passed  six  new  graves.  June  18th.  We 
have  passed  twenty-one  new  made  graves  today. 
June  19th.  Passed  thirteen  graves  today.  June  20th. 
Passed  ten  graves.  June  21st.  No  report.  June 
22nd.  Passed  seven  graves.  If  we  should  go  by  all 
the  camping  grounds,  we  should  see  five  times  as 
many  graves  as  we  do." 

This  report  of  seventy-five  dead  in  106  miles,  and 
that  "if  we  should  go  by  all  the  camping  grounds  we 
should  see  five  times  as  many  graves  as  we  do" 
coupled  with  the  fact  that  a  parallel  column  from 
which  we  have  no  report  was  traveling  up  the  Platte 
on  the  south  side  of  the  river,  and  that  the  outbreak 
of  the  cholera  had  taken  place  originally  in  this 
column  coming  from  the  southeast,  fully  confirms 
the  estimate  of  5,000  deaths  on  the  Plains  in  1852. 
It  is  in  fact  rather  under  than  over  the  actual  num- 
ber who  laid  down  their  lives  that  year.  I  have  mis- 
laid the  authority,  but  at  the  time  I  read  it,  believed 
the  account  to  be  true,  of  a  scout  that  passed  over 
the  ground  late  that  year  (1852)  from  the  Loop  Fork 
of  the  Platte  to  the  Laramie,  a  distance  approximat- 
ing 400  miles,  that  by  actual  count  in  great  part  and 
conservative  estimate  of  the  remainder,  there  were 
six  fresh  graves  to  the  mile  for  the  whole  distance — 
this,  it  is  to  be  remembered,  on  the  one  side  of  the 
river  in  a  stretch  where  for  half  the  distance  of  a 
parallel  column  traveling  on  the  opposite  bank,  where 
like  conditions  prevailed. 

A  few  more  instances  must  suffice  to  complete 
this  chapter  of  horrors. 

L.  B.  Rowland,  now  of  Eugene,  Oregon,  recently 
told  me  the  experience  of  his  train  of  twenty-three 
persons,  between  the  two  crossings  of  the  Snake 
River,  of  which  we  have  just  written.  Of  the  twen- 
ty-three that  crossed,  eleven  died  before  they  reached 
the  lower  crossing.* 

*It  is  but  125  miles  between  the  two  crossings. 
—  28  — 


Mrs.  M.  E.  Jones,  now  of  North  Yakima,  states 
that  forty  people  of  their  train  died  in  one  day  and 
two  nights,  before  reaching  the  crossing  of  the 
Platte.  Martin  Cook,  of  Newberg,  Oregon,  is  my 
authority  for  the  following:  A  family  of  seven  per- 
sons, the  father  known  as  "Dad  Friels,''  from  Hart- 
ford, Warren  County,  Iowa,  all  died  of  cholera 
and  were  buried  in  one  grave.  He  could  not  tell 
me  the  locality  nor  the  exact  date,  but  it  would  be 
useless  to  search  for  the  graves,  as  all  have  long 
ago  been  leveled  by  the  passing  hoofs  of  the  buffalo 
or  domestic  stock,  or  met  the  fate  of  hundreds  of 
shallow  graves,  having  been  desecrated  by  hungry 
wolves. 

Tn  my  trip  of  1910  1  met  and  conversed  with 
Robert  Harvy,  who  told  me  of  what  he  had  seen 
on  the  Oregon  Trail  in  Nebraska  forty  years  ago. 
Mr.  Harvey  has  embodied  in  writing  a  part  of  the 
dreadful  story.  He  is  a  gentleman  of  high  repute 
and  those  who  know  him  will  know  he  h;is  told  the. 
truth.     The  letter  follow?: 

Lincoln,    Neb.,    Oct,    16.    IQIO. 
My  Dear  Mr.  Meeker: 

I  have  been  reading  your  "Oregon  Trail''  and  find 
much  that  is  interesting,  but  there  are  some  things 
your  readers  may  not  be  able  to  appreciate,  for  the 
reason  that  they  are  unable  to  understand  the  condi- 
tions that  existed  during  the  period  of  which  you 
write;  for  instance,  you  speak  of  the  fearful  mortality 
among  many  overland  trains  on  account  of  cholera — 
and  the  evidences  seen  and  found  along  the  route  in 
your  trip  across  the  Plains  in  1852. 

In  1869,  I  traveled  from  the  100th  meridian  in 
Nebraska  along  the  overland  route  on  the  north 
side  of  the  Platte  River  to  near  the  Blue  Water 
Creek,  in  Gordon  County,  and  could  easily  identify 
the  old  camping  places  by  the  natural  condition  and 
the  marks  of  camp  life,  which  will  remain  for  many 
years.     At  the  crossing  of  streams,  and  on  the  spurs 

—  29  — 


and  hilltops  could  be  found  the  graves  of  the  brave 
pioneers  who  had  the  courage  to  penetrate  this  vast 
unknown  region,  and  who,  with  their  wives  and  chil- 
dren, dared  to  traverse  that  dangerous  trail  to  the 
Pacific  Coast,  beset  with  wild  beasts,  savages  and 
dread  disease.  Close  by  one  of  these  old  camps 
on  a  gentle  slope  we  counted  twenty-seven  graves 
and  rudely  carved  on  a  short  board  stuck  in  the 
ground  was  the  simple  but  suggestive  word  "Chol- 
era." 

At  another  place  near  the  crossing  of  a  very, 
very  small  stream  we  counted  over  forty  graves  with 
"Died  of  Cholera"  cut  into  a  piece  of  hardwood, 
probably  a  part  of  a  wagon.  At  another  place  on  a 
gentle  east  slope,  which  I  think  must  have  been  on 
the  west  side  of  Adar  or  Otter  Creek,  in  Keith  Coun- 
ty, we  made  out  the  outlines  of  sixty-three  graves, 
and  one  of  the  several  tracks  or  trails  probably  ob- 
literated others  on  that  end.  A  piece  of  board  was 
found  lying  among  the  graves  marked  "Cholera." 
Near  the  first  mentioned  camp  was  found  in  some 
low  bushes  two  hand  carts  similar  to  those  de- 
scribed in  the  history  of  Mormon  emigration,  which 
led  us  to  the  conclusion  that  the  disease  had  de- 
populated the  train  or  had  carried  oflE  the  owners 
of  the  carts. 

If  this  was  the  visible  evidence  of  mortality  in 
less  than  75  miles  along  part  of  the  route  we  trav- 
eled, what  are  we  to  judge  of  the  evidences  not 
seen  by  us  or  were  at  that  time  so  obliterated  as  to 
be  wholly  hidden  from  view? 

We  observed  that  many  of  the  graves  were  verj' 
short  or  medium  and  no  doubt  contained  the  bodies 
of  children,  young  people  and  women,  who  naturally 
were  more  subject  to  attack  than  men. 

When  I  reflect  on  the  evidences  of  death  along 
those  trails  as  I  saw  them  before  the  destructive 
agencies  of  time  and  civilization,  I  am  lost  in  won- 
der and  admiration  at  the  courage  and  sublime  faith 
of  the  ,women  and  children  in  the  sturdy  husbands 

—  30  — 


and  fathers  who  braved  tlie  dangers  of  an  unknown 
region. 

It  is  lamentable  that  time  and  the  destructive 
agencies  of  frontier  civilization  almost  obliterated 
any  mark  of  tiie  last  resting  places  of  the  thousands 
who  sleep  beside  the  overland  trails. 

Very  truly  yours, 

ROBERT    H.^RVEY. 

State   Surveyer. 

One  of  the  incidents  that  made  a  profound  im- 
pression upon  the  minds  of  all;  the  meeting  of  eleven 
wagons  returning  and  not  a  man  left  in  the  entire 
train; — all  had  died,  and  had  been  buried  on  the 
way,  and  the  women  were  returning  alone  from  a 
point  well  up  on  the  Platte  below  Fort  Laramie. 
The  difficulties  of  a  return  trip  were  multiplied 
on  account  of  the  passing  throng  moving  westward. 
How  they  succeeded,  or  what  became  of  them  I 
never  knew,  but  we  did  know  a  terrible  task  lay 
before   them. 

As  the  column  passed  up  the  Platte,  there  came 
some  relief  for  awhile  from  the  dust  and  a  visible 
thinning  out  of  the  throng;  some  had  pushed  on 
and  gotten  out  of  the  way  of  the  congested  district, 
while  others  had  lagged  behind;  and  then  it  was  pat- 
ent that  the  missing  dead  left  not  only  a  void  in  the 
hearts  of  their  comrades,  but  also  a  visible  space 
upon  the  road,  while  their  absence  cast  a  gloom  over 
many  an  aching  heart. 

As    we    gradually    ascended    the    Sweetwater,    the      v 
nights     became     cooler,     and     finally,     the     summit      / 
reached,    life    became    more    tolerable    and    suffering     1 
less   acute.     The   summit   of  the    Rocky   Mountains, 
7,450  feet,  through  the  South   Pass  presents  a  wide, 
open    undulating    country    that    extends    for    a    long 
distance  at  a  very  high  altitude,  probably  6,000  feet 
above  sea  level,  until   Bear  River  is   reached,  a  dis- 
tance of  over  ISO  miles.     This  is  a  region  of  scant 

—  31  — 


herbage  and  almost  destitute  of  water,  except  at 
river  crossings,  for  on  this  stretch  of  the  Trail,  the 
way  leads  across  the  water  courses,  and  not  with 
them. 

The  most  attractive  natural  phenomena  encoun- 
tered on  the  whole  trip  are  the  soda  springs  near 
the  Bear  River,  and  in  fact  right  in  the  bed  of  the 
river.  One  of  these,  the  Steam-boat  spring,  was 
spouting  at  regular  intervals  as  we  passed.  These 
have,  however,  ceased  to  overflow  as  in  1852,  as  I 
learned  on  my  recent  trip. 

When  the  Snake  River  was  reached  and  in  fact 
before,  the  heat  again  became  oppressive,  the  dust 
stiHing,  and  thirst  at  times  almost  maddening.  In 
some  places  we  could  see  the  water  of  the  Snake, 
but  could  not  reach  it  as  the  river  ran  in  the  in- 
accessible depths  of  the  canyon.  Sickness  again 
became  prevalent,  and  another  outbreak  of  cholera 
claimed  many  victims. 

There  were  but  few  ferries  and  none  in  many 
places  where  crossings  were  to  be  made,  and  where 
here  and  there  a  ferry  was  found  the  charges  were 
high — or  perhaps  the  word  should  be,  exorbitant — 
and  out  of  reach  of  a  large  majority  of  the  emi- 
grants. In  my  own  case,  all  my  funds  had  been  ab- 
sorbed in  procuring  my  outfit  at  Eddyville,  Iowa, 
not  dreaming  there  would  be  use  for  money  "on 
the  Plains"  where  there  were  neither  supplies  nor 
people.  We  soon  found  out  our  mistake,  however, 
and  sought  to  mend  matters  when  opportunity  of- 
fered. The  crossing  of  the  Snake  River,  though 
late  in  the  trip,  gave  the  opportunity. 

Just  below  lower  Salmon  Falls  the  dilemma  con- 
fronted us  to  either  cross  the  river  or  starve  our 
teams  on  the  trip  down  the  river  on  the  south  bank. 

The  immigration  of  1843  had  forded  the  river  low- 
er down  at  a  point  later  known  as  Glenn's  Ferry. 
It  was  extremely  hazardous  at  that  time.  Fremont, 
crossing  at  the  same  time,  narrowly  escaped  losing 
his  famous  gun  and  then  got  out  his  boats.  Subse- 
quent changes  in  the  channel  and  the  formation  of 

—  32  — 


a  new  island  made  it  imperative  to  seek  some  other 
method  of  crossing. 

Some  emigrants  had  callced  three  wagon-beds  and 
lashed  them  together,  and  were  crossing,  but  would 
not  help  others  across  for  less  than  three  to  five 
dollars  a  wagon,  the  party  swimming  their  own 
stock.  If  others  could  cross  in  wagon-beds,  why 
could  I  not  do  likewise?  and  without  much  ado  all 
the  old  clothing  that  could  possibly  be  spared  was 
marshaled,  tar  buckets  ransacked,  old  chisels  and 
broken  knives  hunted  up,  and  a  veritable  boat  re- 
pairing and  calking  campaign  inaugurated,  and  short- 
ly the  wagon-box  rode  placidly,  even  if  not  grace- 
fully on  the  turbid  waters  of  the  formidable  river. 
It  had  been  my  fortune  to  be  the  strongest  physi- 
cally of  any  of  our  little  party  now  reduced  to  four 
men,  though  I  would  cheerfully  accept  a  second 
place  mentally.  My  boyliood  pranks  of  playing  with 
logs  or  old  leaky  skiffs  in  the  waters  of  White  River 
now  served  me  well,  for  I  could  row  a  boat  even  if 
I  had  never  taken  Iesson.=;  as  an  athlete.  My  first 
venture  across  the  Snake  River  was  with  the  wagon 
gear  run  over  the  wagon-box,  the  whole  being  grad- 
ually worked  out  into  deep  water.  The  load  was  so 
heavy  that  a  very  small  margin  was  left  to  prevent 
the  water  from  breaking  over  the  sides,  and  some 
actually  did,  as  light  ripples  on  the  surface  struck 
the  "Mary  Jane,"  as  we  had  christened  (without 
wine)  the  "craft"  as  she  was  launched.  However. 
T  got  over  safely,  but  after  that  took  lighter  loads 
and  really  enjoyed  the  novelty  of  the  work  and 
the  change  from  the  intolerable  dust  to  the  atmo 
sphere  of  the  water. 

Some  were  so  infatuated  with  the  idea  of  floating 
on  the  water  as  to  be  easily  persuaded  by  an  un- 
principled trader  at  the  lower  crossing  to  dispose 
of  their  teams  for  a  song,  and  embark  in  their 
wagon-beds  for  a  voyage  down  the  river.  It  is 
needless  to  say  that  these  persons  (of  whom  there 
were  a  goodly  number)  lost  everything  they  had  and 
some,    their    lives,    the    survivors,    after    incredible 

—  33  — 


hardships,  reaching  the  road  again  to  become  ob- 
jects of  charity  while  separated  entirely  from 
friends.  I  knew  one  survivor,  who  yet  lives  in  our 
State,  who  was  out  seven  days  without  food  other 
than  a  scant  supply  of  berries  and  vegetable  growth 
and  "a  few  crickets,  but  not  many,"  as  it  was  too 
laborious  to  catch  them. 

We  had  no  trouble  to  cross  the  cattle,  although 
the  river  was  wide.  Dandy  would  do  almost  any- 
thing I  asked  of  him,  so,  leading  him  to  the  water's 
edge,  with  a  little  coaxing,  I  got  him  into  swim- 
ming water  and  guidro  him  across  with  the  wagon- 
bed,  while  the  otheis  all  followed,  having  been  driven 
into  the  deep  water  following  the  leader.  It  seems 
almost  incredible  how  passively  obedient  cattle  will 
become  after  long  training  on  such  a  trip,  in  cross- 
ing streams. 

We  had  not  finished  crossing  when  tempting  of- 
fers came  from  others  to  cross  them,  but  all  our 
party  said  "No,  we  must  travel."  The  rule  had  been 
adopted  to  travel  some  every  day  possible.  "Travel 
travel,  travel,"  was  the  watchword,  and  nothing 
could  divert  us  from  that  resolution,  and  so  on  the 
third  day  we  were  ready  to  pull  out  from  the  river 
with  the  cattle  rested  from  the  enforced  deten- 
tion. 

But  what  about  the  lower  crossing?  Those  who 
had  crossed  over  the  river  must  somehow  get  back. 
It  was  less  than  150  miles  to  where  we  were  again 
to  cross  to  the  south  side  (left  bank)  of  the  river. 
I  could  walk  that  in  four  days,  while  it  would  take 
our  teams  ten.  Could  I  go  on  ahead,  procure  a 
wagon-box  and  start  a  ferry  of  my  own?  The 
thought  prompted  an  affirmative  answer  at  once; 
so  with  a  little  food  and  a  small  blanket  the  trip 
to  the  lower  crossing  was  made.  It  may  be  ludi- 
crous, but  is  true,  that  the  most  I  remember  about 
that  trip  is  the  jackrabbits— such  swarms  of  them 
I  had  never  seen  before  as  I  traveled  down  the 
Boise  Valley,  and  never  expect  to  again. 

The  trip  was  made  in  safety,  but  conditions  were 

—  34  — 


different.  At  the  lower  crossing,  as  I  have  already 
said,  some  were  disposing  of  their  teams  and  start- 
ing to  float  down  the  river;  some  were  fording,  a 
perilous  undertaking,  but  most  of  them  succeeded 
who  tried,  and  besides  a  trader  whose  name  I  have 
forgotten  had  an  established  ferry  near  the  old  fort 
(Boise).  I  soon  obtained  a  wagon-bed,  and  was  a' 
work  during  all  the  daylight  hours  (no  cight-hour-a- 
day  there2  crossing  people  till  the  teams  came  up 
(and  for  several  days  after),  and  left  the  river  with 
$110  in  my  pocket,  all  of  which  was  gone  before  I 
arrived  in  Portland,  save  $2.75. 

I  did  not  look  upon  that  work  then  other  than  :> 
a  part  of  the  trip,  to  do  the  best  we  could.  None 
of  us  thought  we  were  doing  a  heroic  act  in  cross^ 
ing  the  plains  and  meeting  emergencies  as  they 
arose.  In  fact,  we  did  not  think  at  all  of  that  phase 
of  the  question.  Many  have,  however,  in  later  life 
looked  upon  their  achievements  with  pardonable 
pride,  and  some  in  a  vain-glorious  mood  of  mind. 

A  very  pleasant  incident  recently  occurred  in  re- 
viving memories  of  this  episode  of  my  life,  while 
visiting  my  old-time  friend,  Edward  J.  Allen.  It  was 
my  good  fortune  to  be  able  to  spend  several  days 
with  that  grand  "Old  Timer"  at  his  residence  in 
Pittsburg,  Pa.  We  had  not  met  for  fifty  years.  The 
reader  may  readily  believe  there  had  been  great 
changes  with  both  of  us,  as  well  as  in  the  world  at 
large  in  that  half  century  of  our  lives.  My  friend 
had  crossed  the  plains  the  same  j^ear  I  did,  and  al- 
though a  single  man  and  young  at  that,  had  kept  a 
diary  all  the  way.  Poring  over  this  venerable  manu- 
script one  day  while  I  was  with  him,  Mr.  Allen  ran 
across  this  sentence  "The  Meeker  brothers  sold  out 
their  interest  in  the  ferry  today  for  $185,  and  left 
for  Portland."  Both  had  forgotten  the  partnership 
though  each  remembered  their  experience  of  the 
ferrying  in  wagon-boxes. 

From  the  lower  crossing  of  the  Snake  River,  at 
Old  Fort  Boise  to  The  Dalles  is  approximately  350 
miles.      It   became   a   serious    question    with    many 

—  35  — 


whether  there  would  be  enough  provisions  left  to 
keep  starvation  from  the  door,  or  whether  the  teams 
could  muster  strength  to  take  the  wagons  in.  Many 
wagons  were  left  by  the  wayside.  Everything  possi- 
ble shared  the  same  fate;  provisions  and  provisions 
only  were  religiously  cared  for — in  fact  starvation 
stared  many  in  the  face.  Added  to  the  weakened 
condition  of  both  man  and  beast  small  wonder  if 
some  thoughtless  persons  would  take  to  the  river  in 
their  wagon-beds,  many  to  their  death,  and  the  re- 
maining to  greater  hardships. 

I  can  not  give  an  adequate  description  of  the  dust, 
which  seemed  to  get  deeper  and  more  impalpable 
every  day.  I  might  liken  the  wading  in  the  dust 
to  wading  in  water  as  to  resistance.  Oftentimes  the 
dust  would  lie  in  the  road  full  six  inches  deep,  and 
^o  fine  that  one  wading  through  it  would  scarcely 
leave  a  track.  And  such  clouds  when  disturbed — . 
no  words  can  describe  it. 

FLOATING  DOWN  THE  RIVER. 

♦A  chapter  from  Pioneer  Reminiscences,  by  the 
author,  published  1905.     $2.25. 


"On  a  September  day  of  1852  an  assemblage  of 
persons  could  be  seen  encamped  on  the  banks  of 
the  Kreat  Columbia,  at  The  Dalles,  now  a  city  of 
no  small  pretensions,  but  then  only  a  name  for 
the  peculiar  configuration  of  country  adjacent  to 
and   including  the   waters   of  the   great   river. 

One  would  soon  discover  this  assemblage  was 
constantly  changing.  Every  few  hours  stragglers 
came  in  from  off  tlie  dusty  road,  begrimed  with 
the  sweat  of  the  brow  commingled  with  particles 
of  dust  driven  through  the  air,  sometimes  by  a 
gentle  breeze  and  then  again  by  a  violent  gale 
sweeping  up  the  river  through  the  mountain  gap 
of  the  Cascade  Range.  A  motley  crowd  these 
people  were,  almost  cosmopolitan  in  nationality, 
yet  all  vestige  of  race  peculiarities  or  race  preju- 
dice    ground    away    in    the    mill    of    adversity    and 

—  36  — 


trials  common  to  all  alike  in  common  danger. 
And  yet,  the  dress  and  appearance  of  this  assem- 
blage were  as  varied  as  the  human  countenance 
and  as  unique  as  the  great  mountain  scenery  before 
them.  Some  were  clad  in  scanty  attire  as  soiled  with 
the  dust  as  their  brows;  others,  while  with  better 
pretentions,  lacked  some  portions  of  dress  required 
in  civilized  life.  Here  a  matronly  dame  with  clean 
apparel  would  be  without  shoes,  or  there,  perhaps, 
the  husband  without  the  hat  or  perhaps  both  shoes 
and  hat  absent;  there  the  youngsters  of  all  ages, 
making  no  pretentions  to  genteel  clothing  other 
than  to  cover  their  nakedness.  An  expert's  in- 
genuity would  be  taxed  to  the  utmost  to  discover 
either  the  texture  or  original  color  of  the  clothing 
of  either  juvenile  or  adult,  so  prevailing  was  the 
patch  work  and  so  inground  the  particles  of  dust 
and  sand  from  oflF  the  plains. 

Some  of  these  people  were  buoyant  and  hopeful 
in  the  anticipation  of  meeting  friends  whom  they 
knew  were  awaiting  them  at  their  journey's  end, 
while  others  were  downcast  and  despondent  as  their 
thoughts  went  back  to  their  old  homes  left  be- 
hind, and  the  struggle  now  so  near  ended,  and  for- 
ward to  the  (to  them)  unknown  land  ahead.  Some 
had  laid  friends  and  relatives  tenderly  away  in  the 
shifting  sands,  who  had  fallen  by  the  wayside,  with 
the  certain  knowledge  that  with  many  the  spot 
selected  by  them  would  not  be  the  last  resting 
place  for  the  bones  of  the  loved  ones.  The  hunger 
of  the  wolf  had  been  appeased  by  the  abundance 
of  food  from  the  fallen  cattle  that  lined  the  trail 
for  a  thousand  miles  or  more,  or  from  the  weak- 
ened beasts  of  the  emigrants  that  constantly  sub- 
mitted to  capture   by  the  relentless  native   animals. 

The  trials  that  beset  the  people  after  their  five 
months'  struggle  on  the  tented  field  of  two  thou- 
sand miles  of  marching  were  ended,  where,  like  pn 
the  very  battlefield,  the  dead  lay  in  rows  of  fifties 
or  more;  where  the  trail  became  so  lined  with 
fallen  animals,  one  could  scarcely  be  out  of  sight  or 


37  — 


281 


^^58 


smell  of  carrion;  where  the  sick  had  no  respite  from 
suffering,  nor  the  well  from  fatigue. 

The  constant  gathering  on  the  bank  of  the  Colum- 
bia and  constant  departures  of  the  immigrants  did 
not  materially  change  the  numbers  encamped,  nor 
the  general  appearance.  The  great  trip  had  moulded 
this  army  of  homeseekers  into  one  homogeneous 
mass,  a  common  brotherhood,  that  left  a  lasting 
impression  upon  the  participants,  and,  although  few 
are  left  now,  not  one  but  will  greet  an  old  com- 
rade as  a  brother  indeed,  and  in  fact,  with  hearty 
and   oftentimes   tearful   congratulations. 

We  camped  but  two  days  on  the  bank  of  the 
river.  When  I  say  we,  let  it  be  understood  that 
I  mean  myself,  my  young  wife,  and  the  little  baby 
boy,  who  was  but  seven  weeks  old  when  the  start 
was  made  from  near  Eddyville,  Iowa.  Both  were 
sick,  the  mother  from  gradual  exhaustion  during 
the  trip  incident  to  motherhood,  and  the  little  one 
in  sympathy,  doubtless  drawn  from  the  mother's 
breast. 

Did  you  ever  think  of  the  wonderful  mystery  of 
the  inner  action  of  the  mind,  how  some  impressions 
once  made  seem  to  remain,  while  others  gradually 
fade  away,  like  the  twilight  of  a  summer  sunset, 
until  finally  lost?  And  then  how  seemingly  trivial 
incidents  will  be  fastened  upon  one's  memory  while 
others  of  mere  importance  we  would  recall  if  we 
could,  but  which  have  faded  forever  from  our  grasp? 
I  can  well  believe  all  readers  have  had  this  ex- 
perience, and  so  will  be  prepared  to  receive  with 
leniency  the  confession  of  an  elderly  gentleman,  (I 
will  not  say  old),  when  he  says  that  most  of  the 
incidents  are  forgotten  and  few  remembered.  I  do 
not  remember  the  embarking  on  the  great  scow  for 
the  float  down  the  river  to  the  Cascades,  but  vividly 
remember,  as  though  it  were  but  yesterday,  inci- 
dents of  the  voyage.  We  all  felt  (I  now  mean  the 
immigrants  who  took  passage)  that  now  our  jour- 
ney was  ended.  The  cattle  had  been  unyoked  for 
the  last  time.  The  wagons  had  been  rolled  to  the 
last  bivouac;  the  embers  of  the  last  camp  fire  had 

—  38— 


died  out;  the  last  word  of  gossip  had  been  spoken, 
and  now,  we  were  entering  a  new  field  with  new 
present  experience,  and  with  new  expectancy  for 
the  morrow. 

The  scow  or  lighter  upon  which  we  took  passage 
was  decked  over,  but  without  railing,  a  simple, 
smooth  surface  upon  which  to  pile  our  belongings, 
that,  in  the  majority  of  cases  made  but  a  very 
small  showing.  I  think  there  must  have  been  a 
dozen  families,  of  sixty  or  more  persons,  princi- 
pally women  and  children,  as  the  young  men  (and 
some  old  ones,  too)  were  struggling  on  the  moun- 
tain trail  to  get  the  teams  through  to  the  west 
side.  The  whole  deck  surface  of  the  scow  was  cov- 
ered with  the  remnants  of  the  immigrants'  outfits, 
which  in  turn  were  covered  by  the  owners,  either 
sitting  or  reclining  upon  their  possessions,  leaving 
but  scant  room  to  change  position  or  move  about 
in  any  way. 

Did  you  ever,  reader,  have  tne  experience  when 
some  sorrow  overtook  you,  or  when  some  disap- 
pointment had  been  experienced,  or  when  deferred 
hopes  had  not  been  realized,  or  sometimes  even 
without  these  and  from  some  unknown,  subtle  cause, 
feel  that  depression  of  spirits  that  for  lack  of  a 
better  name  we  call  "the  blues?"  When  the  world 
ahead  looked  dark;  when  hope  seemed  extinguished 
and  the  future  looked  like  a  blank?  Why  do  I  ask 
this  question?  I  know  you  all  to  a  greater  or  less 
degree  have  had  just  this  experience.  Can  you 
wonder  that  after  our  craft  had  been  turned  loose 
upon  the  waters  of  the  great  river,  and  begun 
floating  lazily  down  with  the  current,  that  such  a 
feeling  as  that  described  would  seize  us  as  with  an 
iron  grip?  We  were  like  an  army  that  had  burned 
the  bridges  behind  them  as  they  marched,  and  with 
scant  knowledge  of  what  lay  in  the  track  before 
them.  Here  we  were,  more  than  two  thousand 
miles  from  home,  separated  by  a  trackless,  unin- 
habited waste  of  country,  impossible  for  us  to  re- 
trace our  steps.    Go  ahead  we  must,  no  matter  what 

—  39  — 


\vc  were  to  encounter.  Then,  too,  the  system  had 
been  strung  up  for  months,  to  duties  that  could 
not  be  avoided  or  delayed,  until  many  were  on 
the  verge  of  collapse.  Some  were  sick  and  all 
reduced  in  flesh  from  the  urgent  call  for  camp 
duty,  and  lack  of  variety  of  food.  Such  were  the 
feelings  and  condition  of  the  motley  crowd  of  sixty 
persons  as  we  slowly  neared  that  wonderful  crevice 
through  which  the  great  river  flows  while  passing 
the  Cascade  mountain  range. 

For  myself,  I  can  truly  say,  that  the  trip  had 
not  drawn  on  my  vitality  as  I  saw  with  so  many. 
True,  I  had  been  worked  down  in  flesh,  having  lost 
nearly  twenty  pounds  on  the  trip,  but  what  weight 
1  had  left  was  the  bone  and  sinew  of  my  system, 
that  served  me  so  well  on  this  trp  and  has  been  my 
comfort  in  other  walks  of  life  at  a  later  period. 
.\nd  so,  if  asked,  did  you  experience  hardships 
on  the  trip  across  the  plains,  I  could  not  answer 
yes  without  a  mental  reservation  that  it  might  have 
been  a  great  deal  worse.  I  say  the  same  as  to 
after  experience,  for  these  subsequent  sixty  years 
or  more  of  pioneer  life,  having  been  blessed  with  a 
good  constitution,  and  being  now  able  to  say  that 
in  the  fifty-eight  years  of  our  married  life,  the  wife 
has  never  seen  me  a  day  sick  in  bed.  But  this 
is  a  digression  and  so  we  must  turn  our  attention 
to  the   trip  on   the  scow,  "floating  down   the   river." 

In  our  company,  a  party  of  three,  a  young  mar- 
ried couple  and  an  unni.Trried  sister,  lounged  on  their 
belongings,  listlessly  watching  the  ripples  on  the 
water,  as  did  also  others  of  the  party.  But  little 
conversation  was  passing.  Each  seemed  to  be  com- 
muning with  himself  or  herself,  but  it  was  easy  to 
see  what  were  the  thoughts  occupying  the  minds 
of  all.  The  young  husband,  it  was  plain  to  be  seen, 
would  soon  complete  that  greater  journey  to  the 
unknown  beyond,  a  condition  that  weighed  so 
heavily  upon  the  ladies  of  the  party,  that  they 
could  ill  conceal  their  solicitude  and  sorrow.  Finally, 
to  cheer  up  the  sick  husband  and  brother,  the  ladies 
began    in    sweet    subdued    voices    to    sing    the    old 

—  40  — 


familiar  song  of  Home,  Sweet  Home,  whereupon 
others  of  the  party  joined  in  the  chorus  with  in- 
creased volume  of  sound.  As  the  echo  of  the  echo 
died  away,  at  the  moment  of  gliding  under  the 
shadow  of  the  high  mountain,  the  second  verse  was 
begun,  but  was  never  finished.  If  an  electric  shock 
had  startled  every  individual  of  the  party,  there 
could  have  been  no  more  simultaneous  effect  than 
when  the  second  line  of  the  second  verse  was 
reached,  when  instead  of  song,  sobs  and  outcries 
of  griei  poured  forth  from  all  lips.  It  seemed  as 
if  there  was  a  tumult  of  despair  mingled  with 
prayer  pouring  forth  without  restraint.  The  rugged 
boatmen  rested  upon  their  oars  in  awe,  and  gave 
away  in  sympathy  with  the  scene  before  them,  until 
it  could  be  truly  said  no  dry  eyes  were  left  nor 
aching  heart  but  was  relieved.  Like  the  downpour 
of  a  summer  shower  that  suddenly  clears  the  atmo- 
sphere to  welcome  the  bright  shining  sun  that  fol- 
lows, so  this  suden  outburst  of  grief  cleared  away 
the  despondency  to  be  replaced  by  an  exalted  ex- 
hilirating  feeling  of  buoyancy  and  hopefulness.  The 
tears  were  not  dried  till  mirth  took  possession — a 
real  hysterical  manifestation  of  the  whole  party, 
that  ended  all  depression  for  the  remainder  of  (he 
trip. 

But  our  party  was  not  alone  in  these  trials  It 
seems  to  me  as  like  the  dream  of  seeing  some  immi- 
grants floating  on  a  submerged  raft  while  on  this 
trip.  Perhaps,  it  is  a  memory  of  a  memory,  or  of 
a  long  lost  story,  the  substance  remembered,  but 
the  source  forgotten. 

Recently  a  story  was  told  me  by  one  of  the 
actors  in  the  drama,  that  came  near  a  tragic  ending. 
Robert  Parker,  who  still  lives  at  Sumner,  one  of  the 
party,  has  told  me  of  their  experience.  John  Whit- 
acre,  afterwards  Governor  of  Oregon,  was  the  head 
of  the  party  of  nine  that  constructed  a  raft  at  The 
Dalles  out  of  dry  poles  hauled  from  the  adjacent 
country.  Their  stock  was  then  started  out  over  the 
trail,  their  two  wagons  put  upon  the  raft  with 
their   provisions,   bedding,   women,  and   children   in 

—  41  — 


the  wagons,  and  the  start  was  made  to  float  down 
the  river  to  the  Cascades.  They  had  gotten  but  a 
few  miles  until  experience  warned  them.  The  waves 
swept  over  the  raft  so  heavily  that  it  was  like 
a  submerged  foundation  upon  which  their  wagons 
stood.  A  landing  a  few  miles  out  from  The  Dalles 
averted  a  total  wreck,  and  afforded  opportunity  to 
strengthen  the  buoyancy  of  their  raft  by  extra  tim- 
ber packed  upon  their  backs  for  long  distances.  And 
how  should  they  know  when  they  would  reach  the 
falls?  Will  they  be  able  to  discover  the  falls  and 
then  have  time  to  make  a  landing?  Their  fears 
finally  got  the  better  of  them;  a  line  was  run  ashore 
and  instead  of  making  a  landing,  they  found  them- 
selves hard  aground  out  of  reach  of  land,  except  by 
wading  a  long  distance  and  yet  many  miles  above 
the  falls  (Cascades).  Finally,  a  scow  was  procured, 
in  which  they  all  reached  the  head  of  the  Cascades 
in  safety.  The  old  pioneer  spoke  kindly  of  this 
whole  party,  one  might  say  affectionately.  One,  a 
waif  picked  up  on  the  plains,  a  tender  girl  of  fifteen, 
fatherless  and  motherless,  and  sick — a  wanderer 
without  relatives  or  acquaintances — all  under  the 
sands  of  the  plains — recalled  the  trials  of  the  trip 
vividly.  But,  he  had  cheerful  news  of  her  in  after 
life,  though  impossible  at  the  moment  to  recall  her 
name.  Such  were  some  of  the  experiences  of  the 
finish  of  the  long,  wearisome  trip  of  those  who 
floated  down  the  river  on  flatboat  and  raft. 

The  Arrival. 

About  nine  o'clock  at  night,  with  a  bright  moon 
shining,  on  October  1st,  1852,  I  carried  my  wife  in 
my  arms  up  the  steep  bank  of  the  Willamette  River, 
and  three  blocks  away  in  the  town  of  Portland  to  a 
colored  man's  lodging  house. 

"Wliy,  suh,  I  didn't  think  yuse  could  do  that,  yuse 
don't  look  it,"  said  my  colored  friend,  as  I  deposited 
my  charge  in  the  nice,  clean  bed  in  a  cozy,  little 
room. 

—  42  — 


From  April  until  October,  we  had  been  on  the 
move  in  the  tented  field,  with  never  a  roof  over  our 
heads  other  than  the  wagon  cover  or  tent,  and  for 
the  last  three  months,  no  softer  bed  than  either  the 
ground  or  bottom  of  the  wagon  bed.  We  had  found 
a  little  steamer  to  carry  us  from  the  Cascades  to 
Portland,  with  most  of  the  company  that  had  floated 
down  the  river  from  The  Dalles,  in  the  great  scow. 
At  the  landing  we  separated,  and  knew  each  otker 
but  slightly  afterwards.  The  great  country,  Ore- 
gon, (then  including  Puget  Sound)  was  large  enough 
to  swallow  up  a  thousand  such  immigrations  and 
yet  individuals  be  lost  to  each  other,  but  a  sorrier 
mess  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  than  con- 
fronted us  upon  arrival.  Some  rain  had  fallen,  and 
more  soon  followed.  With  the  stumps  and  logs, 
mud  and  uneven  places,  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  find 
a  resting  place  for  the  tented  city  so  continually 
enlarging.  People  seemed  to  be  dazed;  did  not 
know  what  to  do;  insufficient  shelter  to  house  all; 
work  for  all  impossible;  the  country  looked  a  veri- 
table great  field  of  forest  and  mountain.  Discour- 
agement and  despair  seized  upon  some,  while  others 
began  to  enlarge  the  circle  of  observation.  A  few 
had  friends  and  acquaintances,  which  fact  began 
soon  to  relieve  the  situation  by  the  removals  that 
followed  the  reunions,  while  suffering,  both  mental 
and  physical,  followed  the  arrival  in  the  winter 
storm  that  ensued,  yet  soon  the  atmosphere  of  dis- 
content disappeared,  and  general  cheerfulness  pre- 
vailed. A  few  laid  down  in  their  beds  not  to  arise 
again;  a  few  required  time  to  recuperate  their  lost 
strength,  but  with  the  majority,  a  short  time  found 
them  as  active  and  hearty  as  if  nothing  hdd  hap- 
pened. 

Note. — Readers  of  this  book  who  may  wish  to 
pursue  this  subject  farther  can  get  a  full  account  of 
the  experiences  that  followed  in  sixty  years  of 
pioneer  life  by  sending  for  my  work  "Pioneer  Remi- 
niscences of  Puget  Sound,  the  Tragedy  of  Leschi," 
a  volume  of  600  pages  7x9,  22  illustrations,  elegant 
silk  cloth  binding,  published  and  sold  exclusively  by 

—  43  — 


myself;  postpaid,  $2.25.  A  history  of  the  Indian  war 
of  the  Northwest,  with  the  author's  own  experience 
i$  here  recorded,  together  with  the  experience  of  the 
pioneers  of  that  day,  and  carefully  compared  with 
the  passing  official  record  of  the  times.  A  chapter. 
"In  the  Beginning/'  gives  the  earlier  history  of  the 
Noi-thwest,  including  that  wonderful  story  of  the 
missionary  work  among  the  Indians,  begun  eighty 
years  ago,  makes  the  work  complete  for  students 
of  history,  from  the  discovery  of  the  Northwest 
coast  to  the  present  time  (1905). 

Address  EZRA  MEEKER, 

12U1  38th  Avenue  N.,  Seattle,  Washington. 


Harvy  W.  Scott  (now  decased),  tlie  veteran  edi- 
tor of  the  Portland  Oregonian,  who  in  his  day  at- 
tained a  National  reputation  as  one  of  the  great  edi- 
tors of  the  time,  wrote  an  editorial  column  review 
of  the  work,  in  which  he  says: 

MR.     MEEKER'S     "REMINISCENCES." 

We  have  received  a  copy  of  Mr.  Ezra  Meeker's  book, 
bparing  the  title  "Pioneer  Reminiscenses  of  Puget 
Sound."  It  is  a  book  of  high  importance  and  value.  It 
goes  deeply  into  the  conditions  of  our  pioneer  life,  in 
which  the  author  bore  a  conspicuous  part.  Since  the 
Spring  of  1853  he  has  lived  continuously  at  Puget  Sound. 
Of  the  whole  history  of  the  country  he  has  been  a  close 
observer,  and  in  it  throughout  an  active  participant.  He 
has  always  been  known  for  marked  individuality  oJ 
character. 


The  story,  in  Mr.  Meeker's  hands,  is  a  drama  of  in- 
tense interest.  It  is  history,  too,  not  fiction;  though  it 
romes  through  his  narrative  almost  In  the  nature  of 
romance.  The  book  will  live.  It  will  carry  Mr.  Meeker's 
ijame  down  to  future  times;  for  it  Is  a  book  for  which 
there  will  be  no  substitute.  As  a  record  of  pioneer  life 
\h  a  section  of  the  old  Oregon  Country  it  will  hold  al- 
ways a  distinct  place.  To  the  striking  individuality  of 
the    author,    to    the    vital    force    of    his    memory,    to    the 

—  44  — 


earnestness  and  sincerity  of  hie  convlctlonD,  to  the  vi- 
vacity of  his  early  Impressions  and  to  the  courage  that 
ever  has  characterized  him  in  the  maintenance  of  hie 
opinions,  we  owe  the  value  of  this  unique  production. 
Ab  a  contribution  to  our  pioneer  history  It  will  take  high 
Place—Above  and  beyond  the  controversies  that  surround 
the  name  of  Governor  Stevens  In  the  early  history  of  the 
territory  of  Washington.  This  fme  narrative,  in  a  word, 
is  the  epic  of  Leschi,  which  has  dwelt  in  the  mind  of 
Mr  Meeker  these  fifty  years.  Was  the  Indian  unfortu- 
nate in  his  life  and  death  whose  name  finds  at  last  an 
attempt  at  vindication,  which,  though  perhaps  not  clear- 
ing it  wholly,  yet  rescues  it  from  perisha>>le  mpmon'  and 
makes    tt    immortal? 


—  45  — 


THE  OREGON  TRAIL  MONUMENT  EXPEDI- 
TION. 

The   Ox. 

The  ox  is  passing;  in  fact,  has  passed.  Like  the 
old  time  spinning-wheel  and  the  hand  loom,  that 
arc  only  to  be  seen  as  mementos  of  the  past,  or 
the  quaint  old  cobbler's  bench  with  its  hand-made 
lasts  and  shoe  pegs,  or  the  heavy  iron  bubbling  mush 
pots  on  the  crane  in  the  chimney  corner;  like  the 
fast  vanishing  of  the  old-time  men  and  women  of 
fifty  years  or  more  ago — all  are  passing,  to  be  laid 
aside  for  tlie  new  ways,  and  the  new  actors  on  the 
scenes  of  life.  While  these  ways  and  these  scenes 
and  these  actors  have  had  their  day,  yet  their  ex- 
periences and  the  lessons  taught  are  not  lost  to  the 
world,  although  at   times   almost   forgotten. 

The  difference  between  a  civilized  and  an  untu- 
tored people  lies  in  the  application  of  these  ex- 
periences; wliile  the  one  builds  upon  the  foundations 
of  tlie  past,  which  engenders  hope  and  ambition  for 
the  future,  the  other  has  no  past,  nor  aspirations  for 
the  future.  As  reverence  for  the  past  dies  out  in 
the  breasts  of  a  generation,  so  likewise  patriotism 
wanes.  In  the  measure  that  the  love  of  the  history 
of  the  past  dies,  so  likewise  do  the  higher  aspira- 
tions for  the  future.  To  keep  the  flame  of  patriotism 
alive  we  must  keep  the  memory  of  the  past  vividly 
in  mind. 

Bearing  these  thoughts  in  mind,  this  expedition  to 
perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  old  Oregon  Trail 
was  undertal^en.  And  there  was  this  further 
thought,  that  here  was  this  class  of  heroic  men  and 
women  who  fought  a  veritable  battle, — a  battle  of 
peace,  to  be  sure,  yet  as  brave  a  battle  as  any  ever 
fought  by  those  who  faced  the  cannon's  mouth; — 
a  battle  that  was  fraught  with  as  momentous  re- 
sults as  any  of  the  great  battles  of  grim  war; — a 
battle  that  wrested  half  a  continent  from  the  native 
race  and  from  a  mighty  nation  contending  for  mas- 

—  46  — 


ttty  iti  the  UttkttbwH  fegribHs  of  the  West  — wh6S« 
name  was  already  almost  forgotten,  and  whose 
track,  the  battle-ground  of  peace,  was  on  the  verge 
of  impending  oblivion.  Shall  this  become  an  estab- 
lished fact?  The  answer  to  this  is  this  expedition, 
to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  old  Oregon  Trail, 
and  to  honor  the  intrepid  pioneers  who  made  it 
and  wrested  this  great  region — the  "Old  Oregon 
Country" — from  British  rule. 

The  ox  team  was  chosen  a.s  a  typical  reminder  ut 
pioneer  days,  and  as  an  eflfective  instrument  to  at- 
tract attention,  arouse  enthusiasm,  and  as  a  help  to 
secure  aid  to  forward  the  work  of  marking  the  old 
Trail,  and  erecting  monuments  in  centers  of  popula- 
tion. 

The  team  consisted  of  one  seven-year  old  ox. 
Twist,  and  one  unbroken  range  four-year-old  steer, 
Dave.  When  we  were  ready  to  start,  Twist  weighed 
1470  and  Dave  1560  pounds  respectivly.  This  order 
of  weight  was  soon  changed.  In  three  months' 
time  Twist  gained  130  and  Dave  lost  10  pounds. 
All  this  time  I  fed  with  a  lavish  hand  all  the  rolled 
barley  I  dare  and  all  the  hay  they  would  eat.  Dur- 
ing that  time  thirty-three  days  lapsed  in  which  we 
did  not  travel,  being  engaged  either  arranging  for 
the  erection  or  dedication  of  monuments. 

The  wagon  is  new  woodwork  throughout  except 
one  hub,  which  did  service  across  the  plains  in  1853. 
The  hub-bands,  boxes  and  other  irons  are  from  three 
old-time  wagons  that  crossed  the  plains  in  early 
days,  and  differ  some  in  size  and  shape;  hence  the 
fore  and  hind  wheel  hubs  do  not  match.  The  axles 
are  wood,  with  the  old-time  linch  pins  and  steel 
skeins,  involving  the  use  of  tar  and  the  tar  bucket. 
The  bed  is  of  the  old  style  "prairie  schooner,"  so 
called,  fashioned  as  a  boat,  like  those  of  "ye  olden 
times."  I  crossed  Snake  River  in  two  places  in  1852, 
with  all  I  posessed  (except  the  oxen  and  cows) 
including  the  running  gear  of  the  wagori,  in  a  wag- 
on-box not  as  good  as  this  one  shown  in  the  illus- 
tration. 

~47  — 


Iti  GHe  fesfjecit  the  object  was  attaitied,  that  of  at- 

iracting  attention,  with  results  in  part  wholly  un- 
expected. I  had  scarcely  driven  the  outfit  away  from 
my  own  dooryard  till  the  work  of  defacing  the 
wagon  and  wagon  cover,  and  even  the  nice  map  of 
the  old  Trail,  began.  First,  I  noticed  a  name  or 
two  written  on  the  wagon-bed,  then  a  dozen  or 
mure,  all  stealthily  placed  there,  until  the  whole  was 
so  closely  covered  there  was  no  room  for  more. 
Finally  the  vandals  began  carving  initials  on  the 
wagon  bed,  cutting  off  pieces  to  carry  away.  Even- 
tually 1  put  a  stop  to  it  by  employing  a  special 
police,  posting  notices,  and  nabbing  some  in  the  very 
act. 

Many  good  people  have  thought  there  was  some  or- 
'^anization  behind  this  work,  or  that  there  had  been 
v;overnment  aid  secured.  To  all  of  this  class,  and 
to  those  who  may  read  these  lines,  I  will  quote  from 
the  cards  issued  at  the  outset:  "The  expense  of 
this  expedition  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  old 
tDregon  Trail,  by  erecting  stone  monuments  is  borne 
by  myself  except  such  voluntary  aid  as  may  be 
given  by  those  taking  an  interest  in  the  work,  and 
you  are  respectfully  solicited  to  contribute  such  sum 
as  may  be  convenient."  The  use  of  these  cards  was 
soon  discontinued,  however.  After  leaving  Portland 
no  more  contributions  were  solicited  or  in  fact  re- 
ceived for  the  general  expense  of  the  expedition, 
and  only  donations  for  local  monuments,  to  be  ex- 
pended by  local  committees  were  taken.  I  found 
this  course  necessary  to  disarm  criticism  of  the  in- 
veterate croakers,  more  interested  in  searching  some 
form  of  criticism  than  in  lending  a  helping  hand. 

To  my  appeal  a  generous  response  has  been  made, 
however,  as  attested  by  the  line  of  monuments  be- 
tween Puget  Sound  and  the  Missouri  River,  a  brief 
account  of  which,  with  incidents  of  the  trip  made 
by  mc  with  an  ox  team,  will  follow. 

—  48  — 


THE  START. 

Camp  No.  1  was  in  my  front  dooryard  at  Puyal- 
lup,  Washington,  a  town  established  on  my  own 
homestead  nearly  forty  years  ago,  and  now  on  the 
line  of  the  Northern  Pacific  Railroad,  nine  miles 
southeast  of  Tacoma,  and  tliirty  miles  south  of 
Seattle,  Washington.  Tn  platting  the  town  I  dedi- 
cated a  park  and  called  it  Pioneer  Park,  and  in  it 
are  the  remains  of  our  ivy-covered  cabin,  where  the 
wife  of  fifty-eight  years  and  I,  with  our  growing 
family,  spent  so  many  happy  hours.  In  this  same 
town  I  named  the  principal  thoroughfare  Pioneer 
Avenue,  and  a  short  street  abutting  the  park  Pion- 
eer Way,  hence  the  reader  may  note  it  is  not  a 
new  idea  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  pioneers. 

No  piece  of  machinery  ever  runs  at  the  start  as 
well  as  after  trial;  therefore  Camp  No.  1  was  main- 
tained several  days  to  mend  up  the  weak  points,  and 
so  after  a  few  days  of  trial  everything  was  pro- 
nounced in  order,  and  Camp  No.  2  was  pitched  in  the 
street  in  front  of  the  Methodist  Church  of  the 
town,  and  a  lecture  was  delivered  in  the  church 
for  the  benefit  of  the  expedition. 

I  drove  to  Seattle,  passing  through  the  towns  of 
Sumner,  Auburn  and  Kent,  lecturing  in  each  place, 
with  indiflFerent  success,  as  the  people  seemed  to 
pay  more  attention  to  the  ox  team  than  they  did 
to  me,  and  cared  more  to  be  in  the  open,  asking 
trivial  questions,  than  to  be  listening  to  the  story 
of  the  Oregon  Trail.  However,  when  I  came  to 
count  the  results  1  found  ninety-two  dollars  in  my 
pocket,  but  also  found  out  that  I  could  not  lecture 
and  make  any  headway  in  the  work  of  getting  monu- 
ments erected;  that  T  must  remain  in  the  open,  where 
I  could  meet  all  the  people  and  not  merely  a  small 
minority,  and  so  the  lecture  scheme  was  soon  after 
abandoned. 

—  49  — 


-50- 


Then  I  thought  to  arouse  an  interest  and  secure 
some  aid  in  Seattle,  where  I  had  hosts  of  friends 
and  acquaintances,  but  nothing  came  out  of  the 
effort — my  closest  friends  trying  to  dissuade  me 
from  going — and,  T  may  say,  actually  tried  to  con- 
vince others  that  it  would  not  be  an  act  of  friend- 
ship to  lend  any  aid  to  the  enterprise.  What,  for 
lack  of  a  better  name,  I  might  call  a  benign  humor 
underlay  all  this  solicitude.  I  knew,  or  thought  I 
knew,  my  powers  of  physical  enduranle  to  warrant 
imdertaking  the  ordeal;  that  I  could  successfully  make 
the  trip,  but  my  closest  friends  were  the  most  ob- 
durate, and  so  after  spending  two  weeks  in  Seattle, 
I  shipped  my  outfit  by  steamer  to  Tacoma.  Condi- 
tions there  were  much  the  same  as  at  Seattle.  A 
pleasant  incident,  however,  broke  the  monotony. 
Henry  Hewitt,  of  Tacoma,  drove  up  alongside  my 
team,  then  standing  on  Pacific  Avenue,  and  said, 
"Meeker,  if  you  get  broke  out  there  on  the  Plains, 
just  telegraph  me  for  money  to  come  back  on."  I 
said  no,  "T  would  rather  hear  you  say  to  telegraph 
for  money  to  go  on  with."  ".A.11  right."  came  the 
response,  "have  it  that  way  then."  and  drove  off. 
perhaps  not  afterwards  giving  the  conversation  a 
second  thought  until  he  received  my  telegram,  tell- 
ing him  I  had  lost  an  ox  and  that  I  wanted  him  to 
send  me  two  hundred  dollars.  As  related  elsewhere, 
the  response  came  quick,  for  the  next  day  following 
I  received  the  money.  ".A  friend  in  need  is  a  friend 
indeed." 

Somehow  no  serious  thought  ever  entered  my 
mind  to  turn  back  after  once  started,  no  more  than 
when  the  first  trip  of  1852  was  made. 

.Almost  everyone  has  just  such  an  experience  in 
life,  and.  after  looking  back  over  the  vista  of  years, 
wonder  why.  In  this  case  I  knew  it  was  a  case  of 
persistence  only,  to  succeed  in  making  the  trip,  but 
there  was  more  than  this:  I  simply  wanted  to  do 
it,  and  having  once  resolved  to  do  it,  nothing  but 
utter  physical  disability  could  deter  me. 

—  51  — 


From  Tacoma  I  shipped  by  steamer  to  Olympia. 

Tlie  terminus  of  the  old  Trail  is  but  two  miles 
distant  from  Olympia,  at  Tumv\''ater,  the  extreme 
southern  point  of  Puget  Sound,  and  where  the  wa- 
ters of  the  Des  Shutes  river  mingles  with  the  salt 
waters  of  the  Pacific  through  the  channels  of  Puget 
Sound,  Admiralty  Inlet  and  Straits  of  Fuca,  150 
miles  distant.  Here  was  where  the  first  American 
party  of  home-builders  rested  and  settled  in  1845  and 
became  the  end  of  the  Trail,  where  land  and  water 
travel  meet.  At  this  point  I  set  a  post,  and  sub- 
sequently arranged  for  an  inscribed  stone  to  be 
planted  to  permanently  mark  the  spot. 

I  quote  from  my  journal:  "Olympia,  February 
19th,  1906: — Spent  the  day  canvassing  for  funds  for 
the  monument,  giving  tickets  for  a  lecture  in  the 
evening  in  return;  what  with  the  receipts  at  the 
door  and  collections,  found  I  had  $42.00— $21.00  of 
which  was  given  to  Allen  Weir  for  benefit  of  monu- 
ment fund." 

Out  on  the  Trail. 

"Camp  10,  Tenino,  Feb.  20th: — Went  to  Tenino  on 
train  to  arrange  for  meeting  and  for  monument; 
hired  horse  team  to  take  outfit  to  Tenino,  16  miles, 
and  drove  oxen  under  the  yoke;  went  into  camp 
near  site  of  the  monument  to  be  erected  about  3  p. 
m  " 

"21st.  A  red-letter  day;  drove  over  to  the  stone 
quarry  and  hauled  monument  over  to  site,  where 
workman  followed  and  put  same  in  place.  This 
monument  was  donated  by  the  Tenino  Quarry  Com- 
pany and  is  inscribed,  'Old  Oregon  Trail,  1845-53'. 
At  2  o'clock  the  stores  were  closed,  the  school  chil- 
dren in  a  body  came  over  and  nearly  the  whole 
population  turned  out  to  the  dedication  of  the  first 
monument  on  the  Trail.  Lectured  in  the  evening 
to  a  good  house —  had  splendid  vocal  music.  Re- 
Cfints  $1600." 

"The  reader  will  note  quotation  from  my  journal, 
"hire  horse  team  to  take  oufit  to  Tenino,"  and  won- 

—  52  — 


—  53 


der  why  1  hire  a  team.  I  will  tell  you.  Dave,  the 
so-called  ox,  was  not  an  ox  "but  simply  an  unruly 
Montana  five-year-old  steer  and  as  mean  a  brute  as 
ever  walked  on  four  legs.  I  dare  not  entrust  the 
driving  to  other  hands,  and  must  go  ahead  to  arrange 
for  the  monument  and  the  lecture.  Dave  would 
hook  and  kick  and  do  anything  and  all  things  one 
would  not  want  him  to  do,  but  to  behave  himself 
was  not  a  part  of  his  disposition.  Besides,  he  would 
stick  his  tongue  out  from  the  smallest  kind  of  exer- 
tion. At  one  time  I  became  very  nearly  discouraged 
with  him.  He  had  ju.-^t  been  shipped  in  off  the  Mon- 
tana cattle  range  and  had  never  had  a  rope  on  him 
— unless  it  was  when  he  was  branded — and  like  a 
big  overgrown  booby  of  a  boy,  his  flesh  was  flabby 
and  he  could  not  endure  any  sort  of  exertion  with- 
out discomfort.  This  is  the  ox  that  finally  made 
the  round  trip  and  that  bore  his  end  of  the 
voke  from  the  tide  waters  of  the  Pacific  to  the 
tide  waters  of  the  Atlantic,  at  the  Battery,  New 
York  City,  and  to  Washington  City  to  meet  the 
president,  and  has  since  made  a  second  try  over  the 
Trail  during  the  summer  of  1910  while  I  was 
"searching  out  and  locating  the  old  pathway,  he 
finally  became  subdued,  though  not  conquered; 
fo  this  day  I  do  not  trust  his  heels,  though 
he  now  seldom  tHxeatens  with  his  horns.  He 
weighed  1,900  pounds — 330  pounds  more  than  he  did 
when  I  first  put  him  under  the  yoke  twenty-two 
months  before.  The  ox  "Twist,"  also  shown  in  the 
illustration,  suddenly  died  August  9th,  1906,  and  was 
buried  within  a  few  rods  of  the  Trail,  as  told  in 
another  chapter.  It  took  two  months  to  find  a  mate 
for  the  Dave  ox,  and  then  had  to  take  another  five- 
year-old  steer  off  the  cattle  range  of  Nebraska. 
This  steer.  Dandy  evidently  had  never  been 
handled,  but  he  came  of  good  ."^tock  and,  with 
the  exception  of  awkwardness,  gave  me  no  serious 
trouble.  Dandy  was  purchased  out  of  the  stock 
yards  of  Omaha,  weighed  1,470  pounds,  and  the  day 
before    he    went    to    see    the    President    tipped    the 

—  54  — 


scales  at  the  1,760-pound  notch  and  has  proven  to  be 
a  faithful,  serviceable  ox. 

At  Chehalis  a  point  was  selected  in  the  center  of 
the  street  at  the  park,  and  a  post  set  to  mark  the 
spot  where  the  monument  is  to  stand.  The  Com- 
mercial Club  undertook  the  work,  but  were  not  ready 
to  erect  and  dedicate,  as  a  more  expensive  monu- 
ment than  one  that  could  be  speedily  obtained 
would  be  provided  as  an  ornament  to  the  park. 

I  vividly  recollected  this  section  of  the  old  Trail, 
having,  in  company  with  a  brother,  packed  my 
blankets  and  "grub"  on  my  back  over  it  in  May 
1853,  and  camped  on  it  near  by  over  night,  under  the 
sheltering,  drooping  branches  of  a  friendly  cedar 
tree.  We  did  not  carry  tents  on  such  a  trip,  but 
slept  out  under  the  open  canopy  of  heaven,  obtain- 
ing such  shelter  as  we  could  from  day  to  day. 

It  is  permissible  to  note  the  liberality  of  H.  C. 
Davis,  of  Claquato,  who  provided  a  fund  of  $50.00 
to  purchase  one  ox  for  the  expedition,  the  now.  fa- 
mous ox  Dave  that  made  the  round  trip  to  the  At- 
lantic and  return,  and  this  second  trip  over  the 
Trail. 

Jacksons. 

John  R.  Jackson  was  the  tirst  American  citizen  to 
settle  north  of  the  Columbia  River.  One  of  the 
daughters,  Mrs.  Wares,  accompanied  by  her  hus- 
band, indicated  the  spot  where  the  monument  should 
be  erected,  and  a  post  was  planted.  A  touching  in- 
cident was  that  Mrs.  Ware  was  requested  to  put 
the  post  in  place  and  hold  it  while  her  husband 
tamped  the  earth  around  it,  which  she  did  with 
tears  streaming  from  her  eyes  at  the  thought  that 
at  last  her  pioneer  father's  place  in  history  was  to 
be  recognized.  A  stone  was  ordered  at  once,'  to 
soon  take  the  place  of  the  post. 

Toledo,  the  last  place  to  be  reached  on  the  old 
Trail  in  Washington,  is  on  the  Cowlitz,  a  mile  from 
the  landing  where  the  pioneers  left  the  river  on 
the  overland  trail  to  the  Sound. 

-55- 


Portland,  Oregon. 

From  Toledo  I  shipped  by  river  steamer  the  whole 
outfit,  and  took  passage  with  my  assistants  to  Port- 
land, thus  reversing  the  order  of  travel  in  1853,  ac- 
cepting the  use  of  steam  instead  of  the  brawn  of 
stalwart  men  and  Indians  to  propel  the  canoe,  and 
arrived  on  the  evening  of  March  1,  and  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  2nd  pitched  my  tent  in  the  heart  of  the 
city  on  a  beautiful  vacant  lot,  the  property  of  Jacob 
Kamm.  1  remained  in  camp  here  until  the  morning 
of  March  9,  to  test  the  question  of  securing  aid  foi 
the  expedition. 

Except  for  the  efforts  of  that  indefatigable  worker, 
George  H.  Himes,  secretary  of  the  Oregon  Pioneel 
Association  since  1886,  and  assistant  secretary  of  the 
Oregon  Historical  Society,  with  headquarters  in 
Portland,  no  helping  hand  was  extended.  Not  but 
that  the  citizens  took  a  lively  interest  in  the  "novel 
undertaking"  in  this  "unique  outfit,"  yet  the  fact 
became  evident  that  only  the  few  believed  the  work 
could  be  successfully  done  by  individual  effort,  and 
that  government  aid  should  be  invoked.  The  pre- 
vailing opinion  was  voiced  by  a  prominent  citizen, 
a  trustee  of  a  church,  who  voted  against  allowing 
the  use  of  the  church  for  a  lecture  for  the  benefit 
of  the  expedition,  when  he  said  that  he  "did  not  want 
to  do  anything  to  encourage  that  old  man  to  go  out 
on  the  Plains  to  die."  Notwithstanding  this  senti- 
ment, through  Mr.  Himes'  efforts  nearly  $200  was 
contributed. 

March  10,  at  7:00  a.  m.,  embarked  at  Portland  on 
the  steamer  Bailey  Gatzert  for  the  Dalles,  which 
place  was  reached  at  night,  but  enlivened  by  a  warm 
reception  from  the  citizens  awaiting  my  arrival,  who 
conducted  us  to  a  camping  place  that  had  been 
selected. 

Upon  this  steamer  one  can  enjoy  all  the  luxuries 
of  civilized  life,  a  continuous  trip  now  being  made 
through  the  government  locks  at  the  Cascades.  The 
tables  are  supplied  with  all  the  delicacies  the  season 

—  56  — 


affords,  with  clean  linen  for  the  beds,  and  obse- 
quious attendants  to  supply  the  wants  of  travelers. 
"What  changes  time  has  wrought,"  I  exclaimed 
"Can  it  be  the  same  Columbia  River  which  I  tra- 
versed sixty  years  ago?  Yes,  there  are  the  mighty 
mountains,  the  wonderful  waterfalls,  the  sunken  for- 
ests, each  attesting  the  identity  of  the  spot,  but  what 
about  the  conditions?"  Tlie  answer  can  be  found 
in  the  chapter  elsewhere  in  this  work,  "Floating 
Down  the  River,"  illustrating  the  mighty  changes  of 
sixty  years,  when  as  an  emigrant  I  passed  through 
this  gap  of  tlie  Cascades  in  a  fiat  boat,  on  the  waters 
of  the  great  river. 

ON  THE  TRAIL. 
The  Dalles,  Oregon. 

I   quote  from  my  journal: 

"The  Dalles,  Oregon,  Camp  No.  16,  March  10. — 
.\rrived  last  night  all  in  a  muss,  with  load  out  of 
the  wagon,  but  the  mate  had  his  men  put  the  bed 
on,  and  a  number  of  the  willing  boys  helped  to  tum- 
ble all  loose  articles  into  the  wagon  while  Goebel 
arranged  them,  leaving  the  boxes  for  a  second  load. 
Drove  nearly  three-quarters  of  a  mile  to  a  camping 
ground  near  the  park,  selected  by  the  citizens;  sur- 
prised to  find  the  streets  muddy.  Cattle  impatient 
and  walked  very  fast,  necessitating  my  tramping 
through  the  mud  at  their  heads.  Made  second  load 
while  Goebel  put  up  the  tent,  and  went  to  bed  at 
10:00  o'clock,  which  was  as  soon  as  things  were 
aranged  for  the  night.  No  supper  or  even  tea,  as 
we  did  not  build  a  fire.  It  was  celar  last  night,  but 
raining  this  morning,  which  turned  to  sleet  and 
snow  at  9:00  o'clock. 

"March  11. — Heavy  wind  last  night  that  tlireatcned 
to  bring  cold  weather;  ice  formed  in  the  camp  half 
an  inch  thick;  damper  of  stove  out  of  order,  which, 
filled  the  tent  full  of  smoke,  making  life  miserable. 
In  consequence  of  the  weather,  the  dedication  cere- 
monies were  postponed." 

—  57  — 


58  — 


Prior  to  leaving  home  I  had  written  to  the  ladies 
of  the  landmark  committee  that  upon  my  arrival 
at  the  Dalles  I  would  be  pleased  to  have  their  co- 
operation to  secure  funds  to  erect  a  monument  in 
their  city.  What  should  they  do  but  put  their  heads 
together  and  provide  one  already  inscribed  and  in 
place  and  notify  me  that  I  had  been  selected  to  de- 
liver the  dedicatory  address,  and  that  it  was  ex- 
pected the  whole  city  would  turn  out  to  witness  the 
ceremonies.  But,  alas,  the  fierce  cold  wind  spoiled 
all  their  well-laid  plans,  for  the  dedication  had  to 
be  postponed.  Finally,  upon  short  notice,  the  stone 
was  duly  dedicated  on  the  12th  of  March,  with  a 
few  hundred  people  in  attendance  with  their  wraps 
and    overcoats. 

Before  leaving  Seattle  I  had  the  oxen  shod,  for 
which  I  was  charged  the  unmerciful  price  of  $15, 
but  they  did  such  a  poor  job  that  by  the  time  I  ar- 
rived at  The  Dalles  all  the  shoes  but  one  were  off 
the  Dave  ox,  and  several  lost  off  Twist,  and  the 
remainder  loose,  and  so  I  was  compelled  to  have 
the  whole  of  the  work  done  over  again  at  The 
Dalles. 

This  time  the  work  was  well  done,  all  the  shoes 
but  one  staying  on  for  a  distance  of  600  miles,  when 
we  threw  the  Dave  ox  to  replace  the  lost  shoe,  there 
being  no  stocks  at  hand.  The  charge  at  The  Dalles 
was  $10,  thus  making  quite  an  inroad  upon  the  scant 
funds  for  the  expedition.  I  felt  compelled  to  have 
them  again  shod  at  Kemmerer,  Wyoming,  848  miles 
out  from  The  Dalles,  but  soon  lost  several  shoes, 
and  finally  at  Pacific  Springs  had  the  missing  shoes 
replaced  by  inexperienced  hands,  who  did  a  good 
job,  though,  for  the  shoes  stayed  on  until  well  worn. 

At  3:30  p.  m.  on  March  14  I  drove  out  from  The 
Dalles.  I  have  always  felt  that  here  was  the  real 
starting  point,  as  from  here  there  could  be  no  more 
shipping,  but  all  driving.  By  rail,  it  is  1,734  miles 
from  The  Dalles  to  Omaha,  where  our  work  on  the 
pid  Trail  ends.  By  wagon  road  the  distance  is 
"greater,  but  not   much,   probably   1,800  miles.     The 

—  59  — 


load  was  heavy  as  well  as  the  roads.  With  a  team 
untrained  to  the  road,  and  one  ox  unbroken,  and 
no  experienced  ox  driver,  and  the  grades  heavy, 
small  wonder  if  a  feeling  of  depression  crept  over 
me.  On  some  long  hills  we  could  move  up  but  one 
or  two  lengths  of  the  wagon  and  team  at  a  time, 
and  on  level  roads,  with  the  least  warm  sun,  the 
unbroken  ox  would  poke  out  his  tongue.  He  was 
like  the  young  sprig  just  out  of  school,  with  muscles 
soft  and  breath  short. 

A  fourteen  days'  drive  to  Pendleton,  Oregon  138% 
miles,  without  meeting  any  success  in  interesting 
people  to  help  in  the  work,  was  not  inspiring.  On 
this  stretch,  with  two  assistants,  the  Trail  was 
marked  with  boulders  and  cedar  posts  at  intersec- 
tions with  traveled  roads,  river  crossings  and  noted 
camping  places,  but  no  center  of  population  was  en- 
countered until  I  reached  the  town  of  Pendleton. 
Here  the  Commercial  Club  took  hold  with  a  will, 
provided  the  funds  to  inscribe  a  stone  monument, 
which  was  installed,  and  on  the  31st  of  March  dedi- 
cated it  with  over  a  thousand  people  present.  Here 
one  assistant  was  discharged,  the  camera  and  photo 
supplies  stored,  a  small  kodak  purchased,  and  the 
load  otherwise  lightened  by  shipping  tent,  stove, 
stereopticon  and  other  etceteras  over  the  Blue  Moun- 
tains to  La  Grande. 

On  that  evening  I  drove  out  six  miles  to  the 
Indian  school  in  a  fierce  wind  and  rain  storm  that 
set  in  soon  after  the  dedication  ceremonies,  on  my 
way  over  the  Blue  Mountains. 

A  night  in  the  wagon  without  fire  in  cold  weather 
and  with  scant  supper  was  enough  to  cool  one's  ar- 
dor; but  zero  was  reached  when  the  next  rnorning 
information  was  given  out  that  eighteen  inches  of 
snow  had  fallen  on  the  moutnains.  However,  with 
the  morning  sun  came  a  warm  reception  from  the 
authorities  of  the  school,  a  room  with  a  stove  in  it 
allotted  us,  and  a  command  to  help  ourselves  to 
fuel. 

—  60  — 


Before  this  last  fall  of  snow  some  had  said  it 
would  be  impossible  for  me  to  cross  the  Blue  Moun- 
tains, a  formidable  barrier  now  confronting  me, 
while  others  said  it  cfiuld  be  done,  but  that  it  would 
be  a  "hard  job."  So  I  thought  best  to  go  myself, 
investigate  on  the  spot,  and  "not  run  my  neck  into 
a  halter"  (whatever  that  may  mean)  for  lack  of 
knowing  at  first  hands.  So  that  evening  Mci^cham 
was  reached  by  rail,  and  I  was  dumped  off  in  the 
snow  near  midnight,  no  visible  light  in  hotel  nor 
track  beaten  to  it,  and  again  the  ardor  was  cold — 
cool,  cooler,  cold. 

Morning  confiirmed  the  story;  twenty  inches  of 
snow  had  fallen,  but  was  settling  fast.  A  sturdy 
mountaineer,  and  one  of  long  experience  and  an  ow- 
ner of  a  team,  in  response  to  my  query  if  he  could 
help  me  across  with  his  team  said,  "Yes,  it's  possible 
to  make  it,  but  I  warn  you  it's  a  hard  job,"  and  so 
the  arrangement  was  at  once  made  that  the  second 
morning  after  our  meeting  his  team  would  leave 
Meacham  on  the  way  to  meet  me. 

"But  what  about  a  monument,  Mr.  Burns?"  I  said. 
"Meacham  is  a  historic  place  with  Lee's*  encamp- 
ment in  sight." 

"We  have  no  money,"  came  the  quick  reply,  "but 
plenty  of  brawn.  Send  us  a  stone  and  I'll  warrant 
you  the  foundation  will  be  built  and  the  monument 
put  in  place." 

A  belated  train  gave  opportunity  to  return  at 
once  to  Pendleton.  An  appeal  for  aid  to  provide  an 
inscribed  stone  for  Meacham  was  responded  to  with 
alacrity,  the  stone  ordered,  and  a  sound  night's  sleep 
followed — ardor  rising. 


*Jason  Lee,  the  first  missionary  to  the  Oregon  coun- 
try with  two  assistants,  camped  here  in  September, 
1834,  at,  as  he  supposed,  the  summit  of  the  Blue 
Mountains,  and  ever  aftei-  the  little  opening  in  the 
forests  of  the  mountains  has  been  known  as  Lee's 
encampment, 

—  61  — 


I  quote  frorn  my  journal:  "Camp  No.  31,  April  4 
(1906).  We  are  now  on  the  snow  line  of  the  Blue 
Mountains  (8:00  p.  m.),  and  I  am  writing  this  by  our 
first  real  out-of  door-  campfire,  under  the  spreading 
boughs  of  a  friendly  pine  tree.  We  estimate  have 
driven  twelve  miles;  started  from  the  school  at 
7:00  (a.  m.);  the  first  three  or  four  miles  over  a 
beautiful  farming  country,  and  then  began  climbing 
the  foothills,  up,  up,  up,  four  miles,  and  soon  up 
again,  reaching  first  snow  at  3:00  o'clock.  The 
long  up-hill  pull  fagged  the  ox  Dave,  so  we  had  to 
wait  on  him,  although  I  had  given  him  an  inch  the 
advantage  on  the  yoke." 

True  to  promise,  the  team  met  us,  but  not  till 
we  had  reached  the  snow,  axle  deep  in  places,  and 
had  the  shovel  in  use  to  clear  the  way.  But  by  3:00 
p.  m.  we  were  safely  encamped  at  Meacham,  with 
the  cheering  news  that  the  monument  had  arrived 
and  could  be  dedicated  the  next  day,  and  so  the 
snowfall  had  proven  a  blessing  in  disguise,  as  other- 
wise there  would  not  have  been  a  monument  pro- 
vided for  Meacham.    Ardor  warming. 

But  the  summit  had  not  been  reached.  The  worst 
tug  lay  ahead  of  us.  Casting  all  thoughts  of  this 
from  mind,  all  hands  turned  to  the  monument,  which 
by  11:00  o'clock  was  in  place,  the  team  hitched  up, 
standing  near  it,  and  ready  for  the  start  as  soon  as 
the  order  was  given.  Everybody  was  out,  the  little 
school  in  a  body,  a  neat  speech  was  made  by  the 
orator  from  Pendleton,  and  the  two  teams  to  the 
one  wagon  moved  on  to  the  front  to  battle  with  the 
snow.  And  it  was  a  battle.  We  read  of  the  "last 
straw  that  broke  the  camel's  back."  I  said,  after 
we  had  gotten  through,  "I  wonder  if  another  flake 
of  snow  would  have  balked  us?"  But  no  one  an- 
swered, and  I  took  it  for  granted  they  didn't  know. 
And  so  we  went  into  camp  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
summit.     Ardor  warming. 

The  sunshine  that  was  let  into  our  hearts  at  La 
Grande  (Oregon)  was  refreshing.  "Yes,  we  will 
have  a  monument,''  the  response  came,  and  they  did, 

—  62  — 


—  63  — 


too,  and  dedicated  it  while  I  tarried.     Ardor  normal 

I  again  quote  from  my  journal: 

"Camp  No.  34,  April  11.  We  left  La  Grande  at 
7:30  (a.  m.)  and  brought  an  inscribed  stone  with  us 
to  set  up  at  an  intersection  near  the  mouth  of 
Ladd's  Canyon,  eight  miles  out  of  La  Grande.  At 
1  ;00  o'clock  the  school  near  by  came  in  a  body  and 
several  residents  to  see  and  hear.  The  children  sang 
"Columbia,  the  Gem  of  the  Ocean,"  after  which  I 
talked  to  them  for  a  few  moments.  The  exercises 
closed  with  all  singing  "America."  We  photo- 
graphed the  scene.  Each  child  brought  a  stone  and 
cast  it  upon  the  pile  surrounding  the  base  of  the 
monument." 

At  this  camp,  on  April  12,  the  Twist  ox  kicked  me 
and  almost  totally  disabled  my  right  leg  for  a  month, 
and  probably  has  resulted  in  permanent  injury. 
Much  had  to  be  left  undone  that  otherwise  would 
have  been  accomplished,  but  I  am  rejoiced  that  it 
was  no  worse  and  thankful  to  the  kind  friends  that 
worked  so  ardently  to  accomplish  what  has  been 
done,  an  account  of  which  follows. 

Baker  City,  Oregon. 

The  citizens  of  Baker  City  lent  a  willing  ear  to  the 
suggestion  to  erect  a  monument  on  the  high  school 
ground  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  old  Trail 
and  to  honor  the  pioneers  who  made  it,  although  the 
trail  is  off  to  the  north  six  miles.  A  fine  granite 
shaft  was  provided  and  dedicated  while  I  tarried 
and  an  inscribed  stone  marker  set  in  the  Trail. 
Eight  hundred  school  children  contributed  an  ag- 
gregate of  $60  to  place  a  children's  bronze  tablet  on 
this  shaft.  The  money  for  this  work  was  placed  in 
the  hands  of  the  school  directors.  Two  thousand 
people  participated  in  the  ceremony  of  dedication 
on  the  19th,  and  all  were  proud  of  the  work.  A 
wave  of  genuine  enthusiasm  prevailed,  and  many  of 
the  audience  lingered  long  after  the  exercises  were 
over. 

A  photograph  of  the  Old  Timer  was  taken  after 
the  ceremonies  of  the  dedication,  and  many  a  moist- 

—  64  — 


MONT^MENT  AT  P.AKKR  riTY,  OREGON 
—  65  — 


fcned  eye  attested  the  interest  taken  in  the  imprompttl 
reunion. 

Sixteen  miles  out  from  Baker  City  at  Straw  Ranch, 
set  an  inscribed  stone  at  an  important  intersection. 
At  Old  Mount  Pleasant  I  met  the  owner  of  the  place 
where  I  wanted  to  plant  the  stone  (always,  though, 
in  the  public  highway)  and  asked  him  to  contribute, 
but  he  refused  and  treated  me  with  scant  courtesy. 
Thirteen  young  men  and  one  lady,  hearing  of  the 
occurrence,  contributed  the  cost  of  the  stone  and 
$6  extra.  The  tent  was  filled  with  people  until  9:00 
o'clock  at  night.  The  next  day  while  planting  the 
stone,  five  young  lads  came  along,  stripped  off  their 
coats,  and  labored  with  earnestness  until  the  work 
was  finished.  I  note  these  incidents  to  show  the 
interest  taken  by  the  people  at  large,  of  all  classes 

The  people  of  Durkee  had  "heard  what  was  going 
un  down  the  line,"  and  said  they  were  ready  to 
provide  the  funds  for  a  monument.  One  was  or- 
dered from  the  granite  works  at  Baker  City,  and  in 
due  time  was  dedicated,  but  unfortunately  1  have 
no  photograph  of  it.  The  stone  was  planted  in  the 
old  Trail  on  the  principal  street  of  the  village. 

Huntington  came  next  in  the  track  where  the 
Trail  ran,  and  here  a  granite  monument  was  erected 
and  dedicated  while  I  tarried,  for  which  the  citizens 
willingly  contributed.  Here  seventy-six  school  chil- 
dren contributed  their  dimes  and  half-dimes,  aggre- 
gating over  $4. 

After  the  experience  in  Baker  City,  Oregon,  where, 
as  already  related,  800  children  contributed,  and  at 
Boise.  Idaho,  to  be  related  later,  over  a  thousand 
laid  down  their  offerings,  I  am  convinced  that  this 
feature  of  the  work  is  destined  to  give  great  results. 
It  is  not  the  financial  aid  I  refer  to,  but  the  effect  it 
has  upon  children's  minds  to  set  them  to  thinking 
of  this  subject  of  patriotic  sentiment  that  will  endure 
in  after  life.  Each  child  in  Baker  City,  or  in  Hunt- 
ington, or  Boise,  or  other  places  where  these  con- 
tributions have  been  made,  feel  they  have  a  part 
ownership  in  the  shaft  they  helped  to  pay  for,  and 

—  66  — 


a  tender  care  for  it,  that  will  grow  stronger  as  the 
child  grows  older. 

It  was  not  a  question  at  Vale,  Oregon,  as  to 
whether  they  would  erect  a  monument,  but  as  to 
what  kind,  that  is,  what  kind  of  stone.  Local  pride 
prevailed,  and  a  shaft  was  erected  out  of  local 
material,  which  was  not  so  suitable  as  granite,  but 
the  spirit  of  the  people  was  manifested.  Exactly 
seventy  children  contributed  to  the  fund  for  erect- 
ing this  monument,  (which  was  placed  on  the  court 
house  grounds,)  and  participated  in  the  exercises  of 
dedication  on  April  30. 

THE  TRAIL  IN  IDAHO. 

Old  Fort  Boise. 

Erecting  a  monument  in  Vale,  as  related  in  the 
last  chapter,  finished  the  work  in  Oregon,  as  we 
soon  crossed  Snake  river  just  below  the  mouth  of 
Boise,  and  were  landed  on  the  historic  spot  of  Old 
Fort  Boise,  established  by  the  Hudson  Bay  Company 
in  September,  1834.  This  fort  was  established  for 
the  purpose  of  preventing  the  success  of  the  Amer- 
ican venture  at  Fort  Hall,  a  post  established  earlier 
in  the  year  by  Nathaniel  J.  Wyethe.  Wyethe's  ven- 
ture proved  disastrous,  and  the  fort  soon  passed  into 
his  rival's  hands,  the  Hudson  Bay  Company,  thus 
for  the  time  being  securing  undisputed  British  rule 
for  the  whole  of  that  vast  regfion  later  known  as  the 
Inland  Empire,  the  Oregon  Country. 

Some  relics  of  the  old  fort  at  Boise  were  secured, 
arrangements  made  for  planting  a  double  inscribed 
stone  to  mark  the  site  of  the  fort  and  the  Trail,  and 
afterwards,  through  the  liberality  of  the  citizens  of 
Boise  City,  a  stone  was  ordered  and  doubtless  before 
this  put  in  place. 

The  first  town  encountered  in  Idaho  was  Parma, 
where  the  contributions  warranted  shipping  an  in- 
scribed stone  from  Boise  City,  which  was  done,  and 
is  in  place. 

—  68  — 


Boise,  Idaho. 

At  Boise,  the  capital  city  of  Idaho,  there  were 
nearly  1,200  contributions  to  the  monument  fund  by 
the  pupils  of  the  public  schols,  each  child  signing  his 
3r  her  name  to  the  roll,  showing  the  school  and  grade 
to  which  the  child  belonged.  These  rolls  with 
printed  headlines  were  collected,  bound  together, 
and  deposited  with  the  archives  of  the  Pioneer  So- 
ciety historical  collection  for  future  reference  and 
as  a  part  of  the  history  of  the  monument.  Each 
child  was  given  a  signed  certificate  showing  the 
amount  of  the  contribution.  The  monument  stands 
on  the  state  house  grounds  and  is  inscribed  as  the 
children's  offering  to  the  memory  of  the  pioneers. 
Over  five  thousand  people  attended  the  dedication 
service. 

The  citizens  of  Boise  also  paid  for  the  stone 
planted  on  the  site  of  the  old  fort  and  also  for  one 
planted  on  the  Trail,  near  the  South  Boise  school 
buildings,  all  of  which  were  native  granite  shafts,  of 
which  there  is  a  large  supply  in  the  quarries  of 
Idaho  very  suitable  for  such  work. 

At  Twin  Falls,  537  miles  out  from  The  Dalles, 
funds  were  contributed  to  place  an  inscribed  stone 
in  the  track  of  the  old  trail  a  mile  from  the  city, 
and  a  granite  shaft  was  accordingly  ordered  and  put 
in  place  during  my  second  trip  of  1910. 

Pocatello,  Idaho. 

The  Ladies'  Study  Club  has  undertaken  the  work 
of  erecting  a  monument  at  Pocatello,  Idaho,  676 
miles  out  from  The  Dalles.  I  made  twenty-three 
addresses  to  the  school  children  on  behalf  of  the 
work  before  leaving,  and  have  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  the  undertaking  has  been  vigorously  prose- 
cuted, and  that  a  fine  monument  has  been  placed 
on  the  high  school  grounds. 

At  Soda  Springs,  739  miles  from  The  Dalles,  the 
next  place  where  an  attempt  was  made  to  erect 
a  monument,  a  committee  of  citizens  undertook  the 
work,  collected  the  funds   to  erect  a   monument  by 


SNAKE    RIVER    CANYON ,  IDAHO. 


—  70  — 


one  of  those  beautiful  bubbling  soda  springs,  which 
is  in  the  park  and  on  the  Trail. 

Montpelier  proved  no  exception  to  what  appar- 
ently had  become  the  rule.  A  committee  of  three 
was  appointed  by  the  Commercial  Club  to  take 
charge  of  the  work  of  erecting  a  monument,  a  con- 
tribution from  members  and  citizens  solicited,  nearly 
^30  collected  and  paid  into  the  bank,  and  arrange- 
ments made  for  increasing  the  contributions  and 
completing  the  monument  were  made  before  the 
team  arrived.  A  pleasant  feature  of  the  occasion 
was  the  calling  of  a  meeting  of  the  Woman's  Club 
at  the  Hunter  Hotel,  where  I  was  stopping,  and  a 
resolution  passed  to  thoroughly  canvass  the  town 
for  aid  in  the  work,  and  to  interest  the  school 
children. 

I    quote  from   my  journal: 

"June  7,  up  at  4.30;  started  at  5.30;  arrived  at 
Montpelier  11.00  a.  m.  *  *  *  A  dangerous  and 
exciting  incident  occurred  this  forenoon  when  a 
vicious  bull  attacked  the  team,  first  from  one  side 
and  then  the  other,  getting  in  between  the  oxen 
and  causing  them  to  nearly  upset  the  wagon.  I  was 
finally  thrown  down  in  the  melee,  but  escaped  un- 
harmed," and  it  was  a  narrow  escape  from  being 
run  over  both  by   team  and  wagon. 

This  incident  reminded  me  of  a  "scrape"  one  of 
our  neighboring  trains  got  into  on  the  Platte  in  1852 
with  a  wounded  buflfalo.  The  train  had  encountered 
a  large  herd  feeding  and  traveling  at  right  angles 
to  the  road.  The  older  heads  of  the  party,  fearing 
a  stampede  of  their  teams,  had  given  orders  not 
to  molest  the  buffaloes,  but  to  give  their  whole 
attention  to  the  care  of  the  teams.  But  one  im- 
pulsive young  fellow  would  not  be  restrained  and 
fired  into  the  herd  and  wounded  a  large  bull. 
Either  in  anger  or  from  confusion,  the  mad  bull 
charged  upon  a  wagon  filled  with  women  and  chil- 
dren and  drawn  by  a  team  of  mules.  He  became 
entangled  in  the  harness  and  on  the  tongue  be- 
tween the  mules.  An  eye-witness  described  the  scene 
as  "exciting  for  a  while."     It  would  be  natural  for 

—  71  — 


,2  — 


the  women  to  scream,  the  cliildrcn  to  cry,  and  the 
men  to  halloa,  but  the  practical  question  was  how 
to  dispatch  the  bull  without  shooting  the  mules  as 
well.  What,  with  multiplicity  of  counsel,  the  inde- 
pendent action  of  everyone,  each  having  a  plan  of 
his  own,  there  seemed  certain  to  be  some  fatalities 
from  the  gun-shots  of  the  large  crowd  of  trainmen 
who  had  forgotten  their  own  teams  and  rushed  to 
the  wagon  in  trouble.  As  in  this  incident  of  my 
own,  just  related,  nothing  was  harmed,  but  when  it 
was  over  all  agreed  it  was  past  understanding  how 
it  came  about  there  was  no  loss  of  life  or  bodily 
injury. 

Cokeville,  8OO14  miles  out  on  the  Trail  from  The 
Dalles,  and  near  the  junction  of  the  Sublette  cut-ofT 
with  the  more  southerly  trail,  resolved  to  have  a 
monument,  and  arrangements  were  completed  for 
erecting  one  of  stone  from  a  nearby  quarry  that 
will  bear  witness  for  many  centuries. 

Out   on  the   Trail,    in   Wyoming — the    Rocky 
Mountains. 

From  Cokeville  to  Pacific  Springs,  just  west  of 
the  summit  of  the  Rockj^  Mountains  at  South  Pass, 
by  the  road  and  trail  we  traveled,  is  158  miles. 
Ninety  miles  of  this  stretch  is  away  from  the  sound 
of  the  locomotive,  the  click  of  the  telegraph  or  the 
hello  girl.  It  is  a  great  extension  of  that  grand 
mountain  range,  the  Rockies,  from  six  to  seven 
thousand  feet  above  sea  level,  with  scant  vege- 
table growth,  and  almost  a  solitude  as  to  habita- 
tion, save  as  here  and  there  a  sheep-herder  or  his 
typical  wagon  might  be  discovered.  The  bold  coyote, 
the  simple  antelope,  and  the  cunning  sage  hen  still 
hold  their  sway  as  they  did  fifty-four  years  be- 
fore, when  I  first  traversed  the  country.  The  Old 
Trail  is  there  in  all  its  grandeur. 

"Why  mark  that  Trail?"  I  exclaim.  Miles  and 
miles  of  it  worn  so  deep  that  centuries  of  storm  will 
not  efface  it;  generations  may  pass  and  the  origin 
of  the  Trail  become  a  legend,  but  the  marks  will  be 
there  to  perplex  the  wondering  eyes  of  those  who 

-73- 


people  the  continent  centuries  hence,  aye,  a  hun- 
dred centuries,  I  am  ready  to  say.  We  wonder  to 
see  it  worn  fifty  feet  wide  and  three  feet  deep,  and 
hasten  to  take  snap  shots  at  it  with  kodak  and  cam- 
era. But  what  about  it  later,  after  we  are  over  the 
crest  of  the  mountain?  We  see  it  a  hundred  feet 
wide  and  fifteen  feet  deep,  where  the  tramp  of  thou- 
sands upon  thousands  of  men  and  women,  and  the 
hoofs  of  millions  of  animals  and  the  wheels  of  un- 
told numbers  of  vehicles  have  loosened  the  soil 
and  the  fierce  winds  have  carried  it  away,  and  finally 
we  find  ruts  a  foot  deep  worn  into  the  solid  rock. 

"What  a  mighty  movement,  this,  over  the  Old 
Oregon  Trail!"  we  exclaim  time  and  again,  each 
time  with  greater  wonderment  at  the  marvels  yet 
to  be  seen,  and  hear  the  stories  of  the  few  yet  left 
of   those   who  suffered  on  this   great  highway. 

Nor  do  we  escape  from  this  solitude  of  the  west- 
ern slope  till  we  have  traveled  150  miles  east  from 
the  summit,  when  the  welcome  black  smoke  of  the 
locomotive  is  seen  in  the  distance,  at  Casper,  a 
stretch  of  250  miles  of  primitive  life  of  "ye  olden 
times''   of  fifty  years  ago. 

Nature's  freaks  in  the  Rocky  Mountains  are  be- 
yond my  power  of  description.  We  catch  sight  of 
one  a  few  miles  west  of  the  Little  Sandy  without 
name.  We  venture  to  call  it  Tortoise  Rock,  from 
the  resemblance  to  that  reptile,  with  head  erect  and 
extended,  as  seen  in  the  illustration.  Farther  on,  as 
night  approaches,  we  are  in  the  presence  of  animals 
unused  to  the  sight  of  man.  I  quote  from  my  jour- 
nal: 

Pacific  Springs,  Wyoming,  Camp  No.  79,  June 
20.  1906.  odometer  958  Cmiles  from  The  Dalles,  Ore- 
gon). Arrived  at  6.00  p.  m.,  and  camped  near  Hal- 
ter's store  and  the  P.  O.;  ice  formed  in  camp  during 
the  night. 

Camp  No.  79,  June  21.  Remained  in  camp  all  day 
and  got  down  to  solid  work  on  my  new  book,  the 
title  of  which  is  not  yet  developed  in  my  mind. 

Camp  No.  79,  June  22.  Remained  in  camp  all  day 
at  Pacific  Springs  and  searched  for  a  suitable  stone 

—  74— 


for  a  monument  to  be  placed  on  tlie  summit.  After 
almost  despairing,  came  to  exactly  what  was  wanted, 
and,  although  alone  on  the  mountain  side,  exclaimed, 
"That  is  what  I  want;  that's  it.  "  So  a  little  later, 
after  procuring  help,  we  turned  it  over  to  find  that 
both  sides  were  flat;  with  26  inches  face  and  15 
inches  thick  at  one  end  and  14  inches  wide  and  12 
inches  thick  at  the  otlier,  one  of  i\ature's  own  handi- 
work, as  if  made  for  this  very  purpose,  to  stand 
un  the  top  of  the  mountains  for  the  centuries  to 
come  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  generations 
that  have  passed.  I  think  it  is  granite  formation, 
but  is  mixed  with  quartz  at  large  end  and  very 
hard.  Replaced  three  shoes  on  the  Twist  ox  and 
one  on  Dave  immediately  after  dinner,  and  hitched 
the  oxen  to  Mr.  Halter's  wagon,  and  with  the  help 
of  four  men  loaded  the  stone,  after  having  dragged 
it  on  the  ground  and  rocks  a  lumdred  yards  or  so 
down  the  mountain  side;  estimated  weight,  1,000 
pounds. 

Camp  No.  79,  June  23.  Remained  here  in  camp 
while  inscribing  the  monument.  There  being  no 
btone  cutter  here,  the  clerk  of  the  store  formed 
the  letters  on  stiff  paste  boards  and  then  cut  them 
out  to  make  a  paper  stencil,  after  which  the  shape 
of  the  letters  was  transformed  to  the  stone  by  crayon 
marks.  The  letters  were  then  cut  out  with  the  cold 
chisel  deep  enough  to  make  a  permanent  inscription. 
The  stone  is  so  very  hard  that  it  required  steady 
work  all  day  to  cut  the  twentv  letters  and  figures, 
-The  Old  Oregon  Train,  1843-57." 

Camp  80,  June  24,  odometer  970^2.  At  3.00  o'clock 
this  afternoon  erected  the  monument  on  the  sum- 
mit of  the  South  pass  at  a  point  on  the  Trail 
described  by  John  Linn,  civil  engineer,  at  42  21  north 
latitude,  108.53  west  longitude,  bearing  N.  47,  E.  240 
feet  from  the  M  corner  between  sections  4  and  5, 
T.  27  N.,  R  101  W.  of  the  6th  P.  M.  Elevation  as 
determined  by  aneroid  reading  June  24,  1906,  is  7450. 

"Mr.  Linn  informs  me  the  survey  for  an  irriga- 
tion ditch  to  take  the  waters  of  the  Sweetwater 
river  from  the  east  slope  of  the  range,  through  the 

-75  — 


South  pass,  to  the  west  side,  runs  within  a  hundred 
feet  of  the  monument. 

We  drove  out  of  Pacific  Springs  at  12.30,  stopped 
at  the  summit  to  dedicate  the  monument  and  at  3:40 
left  the  summit  and  drove  twelve  miles  to  this  point, 
called  Oregon  Slough,  and  put  up  the  tent  after 
dark.' 

The  reader  may  think  of  the  South  P-:tSs  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains  as  a  precipitous  defile  through 
narrow  canyons  and  deep  gorges,  but  nothing  is 
farther  from  the  fact  than  such  imagined  conditions. 
One   can   drive   through  this   pass  for  several   miles 


SUMMIT  MONUMENT 

—76- 


Without  realizing  he  lias  pas.'icci  the  dividinf^  lific 
between  the  waters  of  the  Pacific  on  the  one  side 
and  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  on  the  other,  while  trav- 
eling over  a  broad,  open,  undulating  prairie  the  ap- 
proach is  by  easy  grades  and  the  descent  (going 
west)   scarcely  noticeable. 

Certainly,  if  my  memory  is  worth  anything,  in 
1852,  some  of  our  party  left  the  road  but  a  short 
distance  to  find  banks  of  drifted  snow  in  low  places 
in  July,  but  none  was  in  sight  on  the  level  of  the 
road  as  we  came  along  in  June  of  1906.  This  was 
one  of  the  landmarks  that  looked  familiar,  as  all 
who  were  toiling  west  looked  upon  this  spot  as  the 
turning  point  in  their  journey,  and  that  they  had 
left  the  worst  of  the  trip  behind  them — poor,  inno- 
cent souls  as  we  were,  not  realizing  that  our  moun- 
tain climbing  in  the  way  of  rough  roads  only  be- 
gan a  long  way  out  west  of  the  summit  of  the 
Rockies. 

Sweetwater. 

The  sight  of  Sweetwater  River,  twenty  miles  out 
from  the  pass,  revived  many  pleasant  memories  and 
some  that  were  sad.  I  could  remember  the  spark- 
ling, clear  water,  the  green  skirt  of  undergrowth  along 
the  banks  and  the  restful  camps  as  we  trudged 
along  up  the  streams  so  many  years  ago.  And 
now  I  see  the  same  channel,  the  same  hills,  and 
apparently  the  same  waters  swiftly  passing;  but 
where  are  the  camp-fires;  where  the  herd  of  gaunt 
cattle;  where  the  sound  of  the  din  of  bells;  the 
hallowing  for  lost  children;  the  cursing  of  irate 
ox  drivers;  the  pleading  for  mercy  from  some  hu- 
mane dame  for  the  half-famished  dumb  brute;  the 
harsh  sounds  from  some  violin  in  camp;  the  merry 
shouts  of  children;  or  the  little  groups  off  on  the 
hillside  to  bury  the  dead?  All  gone.  An  oppressive 
silence  prevailed  as  we  drove  down  to  the  river  and 
pitched  our  camp  within  a  few  feet  of  the  bank 
where  we  could  hear  the  rippling  waters  passing 
and  see  the  fish  leaping  in  the  eddies.  We  had 
our  choice  of  a  camping  place  just  by  the  skirt  of 
refreshing    green    brush    with    an    opening   to    g^ve 

—  n  — 


full  view  of  the  fiver.  Not  so  in  '52  with  hundreds 
of  camps  ahead  of  you.  One  must  take  what  he 
could  get,  and  that  in  many  cases  would  be  far 
back  from  the  water  and  removed  from  other  con- 
veniences. 

The  sight  and  smell  of  the  carrion  so  common 
in  camping  places  in  our  first  trip  was  gone;  no 
bleached  bones  even  showed  where  the  exhausted 
dumb  brute  had  died;  the  graves  of  the  dead  emi- 
grants had  all  been  leveled  by  the  hoofs  of  stock  and 
the  lapse  of  time.  "What  a  mighty  change!"  I  ex- 
claimed. We  had  been  following  the  old  Trail  for 
nearly  150  miles  on  the  west  slope  of  the  mountains 
with  scarce  a  vestige  of  civilization.  Out  of  sight 
and  hearing  of  railroads,  telegraphs,  or  telephones 
and  nearly  a  hundred  miles  without  a  postoffice. 
It  is  a  misnomer  to  call  it  a  "slope."  It  is  nearly 
as  high  an  altitude  a  hundred  miles  west  of  the 
summit  as  the  summit  itself.  The  country  remains 
as  it  was  sixty  years  before.  The  Trail  is  there 
to  be  seen  miles  and  miles  ahead,  worn  bare  and 
deep,  with  but  one  narrow  wagon  track  where  there 
used  to  be  a  dozen,  and  with  the  wide  beaten  path 
so  solid  that  vegeation  has  not  yet  recovered  from 
the    scourge   of   passing  hoofs   and   tires   of  wagons 

years  ago.  _  ^    t    r  i. 

As  in  1852  when  the  summit  was  passed  1  felt 
that  my  task  was  much  more  than  half  done,  though 
the  distance  was  scarcely  compassed.  I  felt  we  were 
entitled  to  a  rest  even  though  it  was  a  solitude,  and 
so  our  preparations  were  made  for  two  days'  rest 
if  not  recreation.  The  two  days  passed  and  we 
saw  but  three  persons.  We  traveled  a  week  on 
this  stretch,  to  encoimter  five  persons  only,  and  to 
see  but  one  wagon,  but  our  guide  to  point  the  way 
was  at  hand  all  the  time— a  pioneer  way  a  hundred 
feet  wide  and  in  places  ten  feet  deep,  we  could  not 
mistake.  Our  way  from  this  Camp  81  on  Sweet- 
water led  us  from  the  river  and  over  hills  for 
fifty  miles  before  we  were  back  to  the  river  again. 
Not  so  my  Trail  of  '52,  for  then  we  follovved  the 
river  closer  and  crossed  it  several  times,  while  part 

—  78  — 


of  the  people  went  over  the  hills  and  made  the 
second  trail.  It  was  on  this  last  stretch  we  let  our 
1,000-mile  post  as  we  reached  the  summit  of  a  very 
long  hill,  eighteen  miles  west  of  where  we  again 
encountered  the  river,  saw  a  telegraph  line,  and  a 
road  where  more  than  one  wagon  a  week  passed  as 
like  that  we  had  been  following  so  long. 

Split  Rock. 

I  quote  from  my  journal: 

Camp  No.  85,  June  30,  odometer   1,044. 

"About  ten  o'clock  encountered  a  large  number 
of  big  flies  that  ran  the  cattle  nearly  wild.  We 
fought  them  off  as  best  we  could.  I  stood  on  the 
wagon  tongue  for  miles  so  T  could  reach  them  with 
the  whip-stock.  The  cattle  were  so  excited,  we 
did  not  stop  at  noon,  finding  water  on  the  way,  but 
drove  on  through  by  two-tliirty  and  camped  at  a 
farmhouse,  the  Split  Rock  postoffice,  the  first  we 
had  found  since  leaving  Pacific  Springs,  the  other 
side  of  the  summit  of  South  Pass  and  eighty-five 
miles  distant." 

"Split  Rock"  postoffice  derives  its  name  from  a 
rift  in  the  mountain  a  thousand  feet  or  more  high, 
as  though  a  part  of  the  range  had  been  bodily  moved 
a  rod  or  so,  leaving  this  perpendicular  chasm  through 
the  range,  which   was  narrow. 

The  Devil's  Gate. 

The  Devil's  Gate  and  Independence  Rock,  a  few 
miles  distant,  are  probably  the  two  best  known 
landmarks  on  the  Trail — the  one  for  its  grotesque 
and  striking  scenic  effect.  Here,  as  at  Split  Rock, 
the  mountain  seems  as  if  it  had  been  split  apart, 
leaving  an  opening  a  few  rods  wide,  through  which 
the  S-vveetwater  River  pours  a  veritable  torrent.  Thf 
river  first  approaches  to  within  a  few  hundred  feet 
of  the  gap,  and  then  suddenly  curves  away  from  it, 
and  after  winding  through  the  valley  for  a  half  mile 
or  so,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant,  it  takes  a  straight 
shoot  and  makes  the  plunge  through  the  canyon. 
Those  who  have  had  the  impression  they  drove  their 

—  79  — 


DEVIL'S  GATE 
-80- 


teams  through  this  gap  arc  mistaken,  for  it's  a  feat 
no  mortal  man  has  done  or  can  do,  any  more  than 
they  could  drive  up  the  falls  of  the  Niagara. 

This  year,  on  my  1906  trip,  I  did  clamber  through 
on  the  left  bank,  over  boulders  head  high,  under 
shelving  rocks  where  the  sparrows'  nests  were  in 
full  possession,  and  ate  some  ripe  gooseberries  from 
the  bushes,  growing  on  the  border  of  the  river,  and 
I^luckcd  some  beautiful  wild  roses — this  on  the  sec- 
ond day  of  July,  A.  D.  1906.  I  wonder  why  those 
wild  roses  grow  tlicre  where  nobody  will  see  them? 
Why  these  sparrows'  nests?  Why  did  this  river 
go  through  this  gorge  instead  of  breaking  the  bar- 
rier a  little  to  the  south  where  the  easy  road  runs? 
These  questions  run  through  my  mind,  and  why 
I  know  not.  The  gap  through  the  mountains  looked 
familiar  as  I  spied  it  from  the  distance,  but  the 
road-bed  to  the  right  I  had  forgotten.  I  longed  to 
see  this  place,  for  here,  somewhere  under  the  sands, 
lies  all  that  was  mortal  of  a  brother.  Clark  Meeker, 
drowned  in  the  Sweetwater  in  1854  while  attemptinp 
to  cross  the  Plains;  would  I  be  able  to  see  and 
identify  the   grave?     No. 

I  quote  from  my  journal: 

"Camp  No.  86,  July  2.  odometer  1059.  This  camp 
is  at  Tom  Sun's  place,  the  Sun  postoffice,  Wyoming, 
and  is  in  Sec.  35,  T.  29  N.  R.  97,  6  p.  m.,  and  it  is 
one-half  mile  to  the  upper  end  of  the  Devil's  Gate 
through  which  the  Sweetwater  runs.  The  pas- 
sage is  not  more  tlian  100  feet  wide  and  is 
1300  feet  through,  with  walls  483  feet  at  the  highest 
point.  The  altitude  is  5860.27,  according  to  the 
United  States  geological  survey  marks.  Tt  is  one 
of  nature's  marvels,  this  rift  in  the  mountain  to  let 
the  waters  of  the  Sweetwater  through.  Mr.  Tom 
Sun,  or  Thompson,  has  lived  here  thirty  odd  years 
and  says  there  are  numerous  graves  of  the  dead 
pioneers,  but  all  have  been  leveled  by  the  tramp  of 
stock,  225,000  head  of  cattle  alone  having  passed 
over  the  Trail  in  1882  and  in  some  single  years 
over  a  half  million  sheep.  But  the  Trail  is  deserted 
now,  and  scarcely  five  wagons  pass  in  a  week,  with 

—  81  — 


part  of  the  roadbed  grown  up  in  grass.  That  might}' 
movement — tide  shall  we  call  it — of  suffering  hu- 
manity first  going  west,  accompanied  and  afterwards 
followed  by  hundreds  of  thousands  of  stock,  witb 
the  mightier  ebb  of  millions  upon  millions  of  return- 
ing cattle  and  sheep  going  cast,  has  all  ceased,  and 
now  the  road  is  a  solitude  save  a  few  straggling 
wagons,  or  here  and  there  a  local  flock  driven  to 
pasture.  No  wonder  that  we  looked  in  vain  for  the 
graves  of  the  dead  with  this  great  throng  passing 
and  repassing. 

A  pleasant  little  anecdote  is  told  by  his  neighbors 
of  the  odd  name  of  "Tom  Sun,"  borne  by  that  sturdy 
yeoman  (a  Swede,  I  think),  and  of  whose  fame  for 
fair  dealing  and  liberality  I  could  hear  upon  all  sides. 
The  story  runs  that  when  he  first  went  to  the  bank, 
then  and  now  sixty  miles  away,  to  deposit,  the 
cashier  asked  his  name  and  received  the  reply 
Thompson,  emphasizing  the  last  syllable  pronounced 
with  so  much  emphasis,  that  it  was  written  Tom 
Sun,  and  from  necessity  a  check  had  to  be  so  signed, 
thus  making  that  form  of  spelling  generally  known, 
and  finally  it  was  adopted  as  the  name  of  the  post- 
office. 

Independence  Rock. 

"Camp  No.  87,  July  3,  1906,  odometer  1065,  Inde- 
pendence Rock.  We  drove  over  to  the  'Rock,'  from 
the  'Devil's  Gate,'  a  distance  of  six  miles,  and 
camped  at   10.00  o'clock  for  the  day. 

Not  being  conversant  with  the  work  done  b> 
others  to  perpetuate  their  names  on  this  famous 
boulder  that  covers  about  thirty  acres,  we  groped 
our  way  among  the  inscriptions  to  find  some  of 
them  nearly  obliterated  and  many  legible  only  in 
part,  showing  how  impotent  the  efforts  of  indi- 
viduals to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  their  own 
names,  and  may  I  add,  how  foolish  it  is,  in  most 
cases,  forgetting,  as  these  individuals  have,  that  it 
is  actions,  not  words,  even  if  engraved  upon  stone, 
that  carry  one's  name  down  to  future  generations. 
We    walked    all   the   way   around   the   stone,    which 

—  82— 


was  nearly  a  mile  around,  of  irregular  shape,  and 
over  a  hundred  feet  high,  the  wals  being  so  pre- 
cipitous as  to  prevent  ascending  to  the  top  except 
in  two  vantage  points.  Unfortunately,  w^e  missed 
the  Fremont  inscription  made  in  1842. 

Of  this  inscription  Fremont  writes  in  his  journal: 
"August  23  (1842),  yesterday  evening  we  reached  our 
encampment  at  Rock  Independence,  where  I  took  .some 
astronomical  observations.  Here,  not  unmindful  of  t\f 
custom  of  early  travelers  and  explorers  in  our  countr> , 
I  engraved  on  this  rock  of  the  Far  West  a  symbol  ot 
the  Christian  faith.  Among  the  thickly  inscribed  names, 
I  made  on  the  hard  granite  the  Impression  of  a  large 
cross,  which  I  covered  with  a  black  preparation  of  India 
rubber,  well  calculated  to  resist  the  Influences  of  the 
wind  and  rain.  It  stands  amidst  the  names  of  many  who 
have  long  since  found  their  way  to  the  grave,  and  for 
whom  the  huge  rock  is  a  giant  gravestone. 

"One  George  Weymouth  was  sent  out  to  Maine  by  the 
Earl  oi  Southampton,  Lord  Arundel  and  others,  and  in 
the  narrative  of  their  discoveries  he  says:  'The  next  day 
we  ascended  in  our  pinnace  that  part  of  the  river  which 
lies  more  to  the  westward,  carrying  with  us  a  cross — a 
thing  never  omitted  by  any  Christian  traveler — which  we 
erected  at  the  ultimate  end  of  our  route.'  This  was  In 
the  year  1605;  and  in  1842  I  obeyed  the  feeling  of  early 
travelers,  and  I  left  the  impression  of  the  cross  deeply 
engraved  on  the  vast  rock  1,000  miles  Beyond  the  Mis- 
sissippi, to  which  discoverers  have  glvep  the  national 
name  of  Rock  Independence." 

The  reader  will  note  that  Fremont  writes  in  1842 
of  the  name,  "to  which  discoverers  have  given  the 
national  name  of  Independence  Rock,"  showing  that 
the  name  of  the  rock  long  antedated  his  visit,  as  he 
had  inscribed  the  cross  "amidst  the  names  of  many." 

Of  recent  years  the  traveled  road  leads  to  the  left 
of  the  rock,  going  eastward,  instead  of  to  the  right 
and  nearer  the  left  bank  of  the  Sweetwater  as  in 
early  years;  and  so  I  selected  a  spot  on  the  west- 
ward sloping  face  of  the  stone  for  the  inscription, 
"Old  Oregon  Trail,  1843-57,"  near  the  present  trav- 
eled road  where  people  can  see  it,  and  inscribed 
it  with  as  deep  cut  letters  as  we  could  make 
with  a  dulled  cold  chisel^  and  painted  the 
sunken  letters  with  the  best  sign  writer's  paint 
in  oil.  On  this  expedition,  where  possible,  I 
have  in  like  manner  inscribed  a  number  of  boulders, 

—  83  — 


with  paint  onlv.  whtcli  it  is  to  be  hoped,  before  tfie 
life  of  the  paint  has  gone  out.  may  find  loving  hands 
to  inscribe  deep  into  the  stone;  bu-  here  on  this 
huge  boulder  I  hope  the  inscription  may  last  for 
centuries,  though  not  as  deeply  cut  as  I  would  have 
liked  had  we  but  had  suitable  tools. 


Fish  Creek. 

Eleven    miles    out    from    Independence    Rock    we 
nooned  on  the  bank  of  a  small  stream,  well  named 

-84- 


Fish  Creek,  for  it  literally  swarmed  with  fish  ol^ 
suitable  size  for  the  pan,  but  they  would  not  bite, 
and  we  had  no  appliances  for  catching  with  a  net, 
and  so  consoled  ourselves  witli  the  exclamation  they 
were  suckers  only,  and  we  didn't  care,  but  I  came 
away  with  the  feeling  that  maybe  we  were  "suck- 
ers" ourselves  for  having  wet  a  blanket  in  an  at- 
tempt to  seine  them,  getting  into  the  water  over 
boot  top  deep,  and  working  all  the  noon  hour  in- 
stead of  resting  like  an  elderly  person  should,  and 
as  the  oxen  did. 

North  Platte   River. 

Our  next  camp  brought  us  to  the  North  Platte 
River,  fifteen  miles  above  the  town  of  Casper. 

I   quote  from  my  journal: 

"Camp  No.  89,  North  Platte  River,  July  5,  1906, 
odometer   1104,  distance   traveled   twenty-two   miles. 

"We  followed  the  old  Trail  til  nearly  4.00  p.  m., 
and  then  came  to  the  forks  of  the  traveled  road, 
with  the  Trail  untraveled  by  any  one  going  straight 
ahead  between  the  two  roads.  1  took  the  right  hand 
road,  fearing  the  other  led  off  north,  and  anyway 
the  one  taken  would  lead  us  to  the  North  Platte 
River;  and  on  the  old  Trail  there  would  be  no  wa- 
ter, as  we  were  informed,  until  we  reached  Casper. 
We  did  not  arrive  at  the  Platte  River  until  after 
dark,  and  then  found  there  was  no  feed;  got  some 
musty  alfalfa  hay  the  cattle  would  not  eat;  had  a 
little  cracked  corn  we  had  hauled  nearly  3()0  miles 
from  Kemmerer,  and  had  fed  them  the  last  of  it  in 
the  afternoon;  went  to  bed  in  the  wagon,  first  water- 
ing the  cattle,  after  dark,  from  the  North  Platte, 
which  I  had  not  seen  for  over  fifty-four  years,  as  I 
had  passed  fifteen  miles  below  here  the  last  of  June, 
1852. 

Several  times  during  the  afternoon  there  were 
threatening  clouds,  accompanied  by  distant  light- 
ning, and  at  one  time  a  black  cloud  in  the  center, 
with  rapid  moving  clouds  around  it  made  me  think 
of  a  tornado,  but  finally  disappeared  without  strik- 
ing us.     Heavy  wind  at  night. 

-85- 


This  afternoon  as  \vc  were  (hiving,  with  both  in 
the  wagon,  WilHam  heard  the  rattles  of  a  snake,  and 
jumped  out  of  the  wagon,  and  thoughtlessly  called 
the  dog.  I  stopped  the  wagon  and  called  the  dog 
away  from  the  reptile  until  it  was  killed.  When 
stretched  out  it  measured  four  feet  eight  inches, 
and    had    eight    rattles. 

Casper,  Wyoming. 

I  quote  from  my  journal: 

"Camp  No.  90,  odometer  1117 Vs,  Casper,  Wyom- 
ing, July  6  (1906).  At  the  noon  hour,  while  eating 
dinner,  seven  miles  out,  we  heard  the  whistle  of  the 
locomotive,  something  we  had  not  seen  nor  heard 
for  nearly  300  miles.  As  soon  as  lunch  was  over 
1  left  the  wagon  and  walked  in  ahead  of  the  team 
to  select  camping  ground,  secure  feed,  and  get  the 
mail.     Received  twenty  letters,  several  from  home. 

Fortunately  a  special  meeting  of  the  commercial 
club  held  this  evening,  and  I  laid  the  matter  of 
building  a  monument  before  them,  with  the  usual 
result;  they  resolved  to  build  one;  opened  the  sub- 
scription at  once,  and  appointed  a  committee  to  carry 
the  work  forward.  I  am  assured  by  several  promi- 
nent citizens  that  a  $500  monument  will  be  erected, 
as  the  city  council  will  join  with  the  club  to  pro- 
vide for  a  fountain  as  well,  and  place  it  on  the  most 
public  street  crossing  of  the  city. 

As  a  sequel  to  this  entrj'  in  my  diary,  I  have  re- 
cently received  this  self-explanatory  letter  of  a  date 
five  years  later,  showing  how  the  seed  planted 
finally  has  borne  fruit.  This  letter  also  is  witness 
to  the  zeal  and  helpfulness  of  the  ladies  in  this  work. 
I  have  before  said  "God  bless  the  ladies,"  and  I  want 
to  say  it  again  and  bear  testimony  to  the  fact,  for 
it  is  a  fact  that  much  of  the  success  in  securing  the 
erection  of  monuments  along  the  Oregon  Trail  is 
due  to  the  efforts  of  the  ladies.     The  letter  folows. 

—  86  — 


Casper,  Wyo.,  May  24,   1911. 
Hon.  Ezra  Meeker, 
Puyallup,   Wash. 
My    Dear    Sir:    I    take    great    pleasure    in    sending 
you  a  cut  of  the  monument  erected  on  the  Oregon 
Trail,  by  the   Pioneers  of  Natrona  County. 

The  base  consists  of  concrete  18x18  feet  square, 
four  steps   12  inches   high. 

The  obelisk  is  24  feet  in  height,  and  bears  the 
inscription: 

"In  memory  of  the  Old  Oregon  Trail  and 
those  who  blazed  the  way.     Erected  by  Pio- 
neer Association,   Casper,  Wyo.,   1850-1911." 
The  monument  is  located  on  railroad  ground  in  a 
place  where  all  comers  and  goers  can  not  help  but 
see. 

The  Casper  people,  also  all  people  in  Natrona 
County,  are  very  proud  of  its  beauty,  and  arc  grate- 
ful to  you,  the  one  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for 
its  suggestion.  I  was  president  of  the  association 
during  all  the  arrangements  and  am  proud  of  the 
honor. 

Very  Respectfully, 

IDA  A.   HEWES.  Postmaster. 

GLEN    ROCK. 

Glen  Rock  was  the  next  place  in  our  itinerary, 
which  we  reached  at  dark,  after  having  driven 
twenty-five  and  one-fovrth  miles.  This  is  the  long- 
est drive  we  have  made  on  the  whole  trip. 

Glen  Rock  is  a  small  village,  but  the  ladies  met 
and  resolved  they  "would  have  as  nice  a  monument 
as  Casper.''  even  if  it  did  not  cost  as  much,  be- 
cause there  was  a  stone  quarry  out  but  six  miles 
from  town.  One  enthusiastic  lady  said  "We  will 
inscribe  it  ourselves,  if  no  stone-cutter  can  be  had." 
"'Where  there's  a  will  there's  a  way,'  as  the  old 
adage  runs,"  I  remarked  as  we  left  the  nice  little 
burg  and  said  good-bye  to  the  energetic  ladies  in 
it.  God  bless  the  women,  anyhow;  I  don't  see  how 
the  world  could  get  along  without  them;  and  any- 

—  87  — 


how  I  don't  see  what  life  would  have  been  without 
that  little  faithful  companion  that  came  over  this 
very  same  ground  with  me  fifty-four  years  ago  and 
still  lives  to  rejoice  for  the  many,  many  blessings 
vouchsafed    to   us    and    our    descendants. 

Douglas,  Wyoming. 

At  Douglas,  Wyoming,  1177%  miles  out  from  The 
Dalles,  the  people  at  first  seemed  reluctant  to  as- 
sume the  responsibility  of  erecting  a  monument, 
everybody  being  "too  busy"  to  give  up  any  time  to 
it,  but  were  willing  to  contribute.  After  a  short 
canvass.  $52  was  contributed,  a  local  committee  ap- 
pointed, and  an  organized  effort  to  erect  a  monu- 
ment was  well  in  hand  before  we  drove  out  of  the 
town. 

I  here  witnessed  one  of  those  heavy  downpours 
like  some  I  remember  in  '52,  where,  as  in  this  case, 
the  water  came  down  in  veritable  sheets,  and  in  an 
incredibly  short  time  turned  all  the  slopes  into  roar- 
ing torrents  and  level  places  into  lakes;  the  water 
ran  six  inches  deep  in  the  streets  in  this  case,  on 
a  very  heavy  grade  the  whole  width   of  the  street. 

T  quote  from  my  journal: 

"Camp  No.  95,  July  12,  odometer  1,192.  We  are 
camped  under  a  group  of  balm  trees  in  the  Platte 
bottom  near  the  bridge  at  the  farm  of  a  company, 
Dr.  J.  M.  Wilson  in  charge,  where  we  found  a 
good  vegetable  garden  and  were  bidden  to  help  our- 
selves, which  I  did,  with  a  liberal  hand,  to  a  feast 
of  young  onions,  radishes,  beets  and  lettuce  enough 
for  several  days." 

Puyallup-Tacoma-Seattle. 

This  refreshing  shade  and  these  spreading  balms 
carried  me  back  to  the  little  cabin  home  in  the  Puy- 
allup  valley,  1,500  miles  away,  where  we  had  for  so 
long  a  period 'enjoyed  the  cool  shades  of  the  native 
forests,  enlivened  by  the  charms  of  songsters  at 
peep  of  day,  with  the  dripping  dew  off  the  leaves 
like  as  if  a  shower  had  fallen  over  the  forest.  Hav- 
ing now  passed  the   1,200-mile  mark  out  from  The 

—  88- 


Dalles,  with  scarcely  the  vestige  of  timber  life  ex- 
cept in  the  snows  of  the  Blue  mountains,  one  can 
not  wonder  that  my  mind  should  run  back  to  not 
only  the  little  cabin  home  as  well  as  to  the  more 
pretentious  residence  near  by;  to  the  time  when  our 
homestead  of  160  acres,  granted  us  by  the  govern- 
ment was  a  dense  forest — when  the  little  clearing 
was  so  isolated  we  could  see  naught  else  but  walls 
of  timber  around  us — timber  that  required  the  laboi 
of  one  man  twelve  years  to  remove  from  a  quarter 
section  of  land — of  the  time  when  trails  only  reached 
the  spot — when,  as  the  poet  wrote: 
"Oxen  answered  well  for  team, 
Though  now  they'd  be  too  slow; — " 
when  the  semi-monthly  mail  was  eagerly  looked  for; 
when  the  Tribune  would  be  re-read  again  and  again 
before  the  new  supply  came;  when  the  morning 
hours  before  breakfast  were  our  only  school  hours 
for  the  children;  when  the  home-made  shoe  pegs 
and  the  home-shaped  shoe  lasts  answered  for  mak- 
ing and  mending  the  shoes,  and  the  home-saved 
bristle  for  the  waxed  end — when  the  Indians,  if  not 
our  nearest  neighbors,  I  had  liked  to  have  said 
our  best;  when  the  meat  in  the  barrel  and  the 
flour  in  the  box,  in  spite  of  the  most  strenuous 
efforts,  would  at  times  run  low;  when  the  time  for 
labor  would  be  much  nearer  eighteen  than  eight 
hours   a   day. 

"SUPPER.'*  Supper  is  ready;  and  when  re- 
peated in  more  imperative  tones,  I  at  last  awake  to 
inhale  the  fragrant  flavors  of  that  most  delicious 
beverage,  camp  coffee,  from  the  Mocha  and  Java 
mixed  grain  that  had  "just  come  to  a  boil,"  and  to 
realize  there  was  something  else  in  the  air  when 
the  bill  of  fare  was  scanned. 


Menu. 

Calf's   liver,   with   bacon,    fried   crisp. 

Coffee,  with  cream,  and  a  lump  of  butter  added. 

Lettuce,   with    vinegar    and   sugar. 

Young   onions. 

Boiled    young  carrots. 

Radishes. 

Beets,  covered  with  vinegar. 

Cornnieal  mush,  cooked  forty  minutes,  in  reserve  and 

for  a   breakfast   fry. 

These  "delicacies  of  the  season,"  coupled  with 
the — what  shall  I  call  it? — delicious  appetite  incident 
to  a  strenuous  day's  travel  and  a  late  supper  hour, 
without  a  dinner  padding  in  the  stomach,  aroused 
me  to  a  sense  of  the  necessities  of  the  inner  man, 
and  to  that  keen  relish  incident  to  prolonged  ex- 
ertion and  an  open-air  life,  and  justice  was  meted 
out  to  the  second  meal  of  the  day  following  a  5.00 
o'clock   breakfast. 

I  awoke  also  to  the  fact  that  I  was  on  the  spot 
near  where  I  camped  fifty-four  years  ago  in  this 
same  Platte  valley,  then  apparently  almost  a  desert. 
Now  what  do  I  see?  As  we  drew  into  camp,  two 
mowing  machines  cutting  the  alfalfa;  two  or  more 
teams  raking  the  cured  hay  to  the  rick,  and  a  huge 
fork  or  rake  at  intervals  climbing  the  steep  incline 
of  fenders  to  above  the  top  of  the  rick,  and  de- 
positing its  equivalent  to  a  wagon-load  at  a  time. 
To  my  right,  as  we  drove  through  the  gate  the 
large  garden  looked  temptingly  near,  as  did  some 
rows  of  small  fruit  .  Hay  ricks  dotted  the  field, 
and  outhouses,  barns  and  dwelings  at  the  home. 
We  are  in  the  midst  of  plenty  and  the  guests,  we 
may  almost  say,  of  friends,  instead  of  feeling  we 
must  deposit  the  trusted  rifle  in  convenient  place 
while  we  eat.  Yes,  we  will  exclaim  again,  "What 
wondrous   changes   time  has  wrought!" 

But  mj'  mind  will  go  back  to  the  little  ivy-covered 
cabin  now  so  carefully  preserved  in  Pioneer  Park 
in  the  little  pretentious  city  of  Puyallup,  that  was 
once    our   homestead,   and   so   long   our   home,   and 

—  90  — 


wliere  the  residence  still  stands  near  by.  The 
timber  is  all  gone  and  in  its  place  brick  blocks 
and  pleasant,  modest  homes  are  found,  where  the 
roots  and  stumps  once  occupied  the  ground  now 
smiling  fruit  gardens  adorn  the  landscape  and 
fill  the  purses  of  400  fruit  growers,  and  supply 
the  wants  of  6,000  people.  Instead  of  the  slow  trudg- 
ing ox  team,  driven  to  the  market  town  sixteen 
miles  distant,  with  a  day  in  camp  on  the  way,  I  see 
fifty-four  railroad  trains  a  day  thundering  through 
the  town.  I  see  electric  lines  with  crowded  cars 
carrying  passengers  to  tide  water  and  to  the  rising 
city  of  Tacoma,  but  seven  miles  distant.  I  see  a 
quarter  of  a  million  people  within  a  radius  of  thirty 
miles,  where  solitude  reigned  supreme  fifty-four  years 
ago.  save  the  song  of  the  Indian,  the  thump  of  his 
canoe  paddle,  or  the  din  of  his  gambling  revels. 
When  I  go  down  to  the  Sound  I  see  a  mile  of  ship- 
ping docks  where  before  the  waters  rippled  over  a 
pebbly  beach  filled  with  shell-fish.  I  look  farther 
and  see  hundreds  of  steamers  plying  thither  and 
yon  on  the  great  inland  .'^ca,  where  fifty-four  years 
ago  the  Indian's  canoe  only  noiselessly  skimmed  the 
water.  I  sec  hundreds  of  sail  vessels  that  whiten 
every  sea  of  the  globe,  being  either  towed  here  and 
there  or  at  dock,  receiving  or  discharging  cargo, 
where  before  scarce  a  dozen  had  in  a  year  ventured 
the  voyage.  At  the  docks  in  vSeattle  I  see  the  28.000- 
ton  steamers  receiving  their  monstei*  cargoes  for 
the  Orient,  and  am  reminded  that  these  monsters 
can  enter  any  of  the  numerous  harbors  of  Puget 
Sound  and  are  supplemented  by  a  great  array  of 
other  steam  tonnage  contending  for  that  vast  across- 
sea  trade,  and  again  exclaim  with  greater  wonderment 
than  ever,  "What  wondrous  changes  time  has 
wrought!"  If  I  look  through  the  channels  of  Puget 
Sound,  I  yet  see  the  forty  islands  or  more;  its  six- 
teen hundred  miles  of  shore  line;  its  schools  of  fish, 
and  at  intervals  the  seal;  its  myriads  of  sea  gulls; 
the  hawking  crow;  the  clam  beds;  the  ebb  and  flow 
of  the  tide — still  there.  But  many  happy  homes  dot 
the   shore   line    where    the   dense    forests    stood;    the 

—  91  — 


wild  fruits  have  given  way  to  the  cultivated;  train- 
loads  of  fruit  go  out  to  distant  markets;  and  what 
we  once  looked  upon  as  barren  land  now  gives  plen- 
teous crops;  and  we  again  exclaim  "What  wondrous 
changes  time  has  wrought;"  or  shall  we  not  say, 
"What  wondrous  changes  the  hand  of  man  has 
wrought!" 

But  I  am  admonished  I  have  wandered  and  musr 
needs  go  back  to  our  narrative. 

Fort  Laramie,  Wyoming. 

I  quote  from  my  journal: 

"Camp  No.  99,  July  16,  Fort  Laramie,  odometer 
1,247.  From  the  time  we  crossed  the  Missouri  in 
May,  1852,  until  we  arrived  opposite  this  place  on 
the  north  bank  of  the  Platte,  no  place  or  name  was 
so  universally  in  the  minds  of  the  emigrants  as  old 
Fort  Laramie;  here,  we  eagerly  looked  for  letters 
that  never  came — maybe  our  friends  and  relatives 
had  not  written;  maybe  they  had  and  the  letter  lost 
or  dumped  somewhere  in  "The  States;"  but  now  all 
hope  vanished,  regarding  the  prospect  of  hearing 
from  home  and  we  must  patiently  wait  until  the  long 
journey  has  ended  and  a  missive  might  reach  us  by 
the  Isthmus  or  maybe  by  a  sail  vessel  around  Cape 
Horn.  Now,  as  I  write.  I  know  my  letter  written 
in  the  morning  will  at  night  be  on  the  banks  of  the 
great  river,  and  so  for  each  day  of  the  year.  One 
never  ceases  to  exclaim,  "What  changes  time  has 
wrought!"  What  wondrous  changes  in  these  fifty- 
four  years,  since  I  first  set  foot  on  the  banks  of  the 
Platte  and  looked  longingly  across  the  river  for  the 
letter  that  never  came. 

This  morning  at  4.30  the  alarm  sounded,  but  in 
spite  of  our  strenuous  efforts  the  start  was  delayed 
till  6.15.  Conditions  were  such  as  to  give  us  a  hot 
day,  but  the  cattle  would  not  travel  without  eating 
the  grass  in  the  road,  having  for  some  cause  not 
liked  the  grass  they  were  on  during  the  night;  and 
so,  after  driving  a  couple  of  miles  and  finding  splen- 
did feed,  we  turned  them  out  to  fill  up,  which  they 
speedily   did,   and   thereafter   became   laggards,    too 

—  92  — 


lazy  for  anything.  So  after  all  we  did  not  arrive  here 
till  4  00,  and  with  dinner  at  six,  it  is  not  strange  that 
we  had  good  appetites. 

Localy,  it  is  difficult  to  get  accurate  information. 
All  agree  there  is  no  vestige  of  the  old  Traders' 
Camp  or  the  first  United  States  Fort  left,  but  disa- 
gree as  to  its  location.  The  new  fort  (not  a  fort,  but 
an  encampment),  covers  a  space  of  thirty  or  forty 
acres  with  all  sorts  of  buildings  and  ruins,  from  the 
old  barracks,  three  hundred  feet  long,  in  good  pres- 
ervation and  occupied  by  the  present  owner,  Joseph 
Wild,  as  a  store,  postofiice,  saloon,  hotel  and  family 
residence,  to  the  old  guard  house  with  its  grim  iron 
door  and  twenty-inch  concrete  walls.  One  frame 
building,  two  stories,  we  are  told,  was  transported 
by  ox  team  from  Kansas  City  at  a  cost  of  $100  per 
ton  freight.  There  seems  to  be  no  plan  either  in 
the  arrangement  of  the  buildings  or  of  the  buildings 
themselves.  I  noticed  one  building,  part  stone,  part 
concrete,  part  adobe,  and  part  burnt  brick.  The 
concrete  walls  of  one  building  measured  twenty-two 
inches  tliick  and  there  is  evidence  of  the  use  of  lime 
with  a  lavish  hand,  and  I  think  all  of  them  arc 
alike  massive. 

The  location  of  the  barracks  is  in  Sec.  28,  T.  26 
X..  R  64  W.  of  6th  P.  M.,  United  States  survey." 

Out  on  th<;  Trail— Nebraska— Scott's  Bluff. 

July  20th,  odometer  1,308^4  miles.  We  drove  out 
from  the  town  of  Scott's  Blufif  to  the  left  bank  of 
the  No;th  Platte,  less  than  a  mile  from  the  town, 
to  a  point  nearly  opposite  that  noted  landmark. 
Scott's  Bluff,  on  the  right  bank,  looming  up  near 
eight  hundred  feet  above  the  river  and  adjoining 
green  fields,  and  photographed  the  bluffs  and  section 
of  the  river. 

Probably  all  emigrants  of  early  days  remember 
Scott's  Bluff,  which  could  be  seen  for  so  long  a  dis- 
tance, and  yet  apparently  so  near  for  days  and  days, 
till  it  finally  sank  out  of  sight  as  we  passed  on,  and 
new  objects  came  into  view.  As  with  Tortoise  Rock 
the   formation    is  sand   and   clay  cemented,  yet   soft 

—  93  — 


enough  to  cut  easily,  and  is  constantly  changing  in 
smaller  details. 

We  certainly  saw  Scott's  Bluff  while  near  the 
junction  of  the  two  rivers,  near  a  hundred  miles 
distant,  in  that  illusive  phenomenon,  the  mirage,  as 
plainly  as  when  within  a  few  miles  of  it. 

Speaking  of  this  deceptive  manifestation  of  one 
natural  law,  I  am  ied  to  wonder  why,  on  the  trip 
of  1906,  I  have  seen  nothing  of  tliose  sheets  of  water 
so  real  as  to  be  almost  within  our  grasp  yet  never 
reached,  those  hills  and  valleys  we  never  traversed, 
beautiful  pictures  on  the  horizon  and  sometimes 
above,  while  traversing  the  valley  in  1852 — all  gone, 
perhaps  to  be  seen  no  more,  as  climatic  changes 
come  to  destroy  the  conditions  that  caused  them. 
Perhaps  this  may  in  part  be  caused  by  the  added 
humidity  of  the  atmosphere,  or  it  may  be  also  in 
part  because  of  the  numerous  groves  of  timber 
that  now  adorn  the  landscape.  Whatever  the  cause, 
the  fact  remains  that  in  the  year  1852  the  mirage  was 
of  common  occurrence  and  now,  if  seen  at  all,  is 
rare. 

The  origin  of  the  name  of  Scott's  Bluff  is  not 
definitely  known,  but  as  tradition  runs  "'a  trader 
named  Scott,  while  returning  to  the  States,  was 
robbed  and  stripped  by  the  Indians.  He  crawled  to 
these  bluff's  and  there  famished  and  his  bones  were 
afterwards  found  and  buried,"  these  quoted  words 
having  been  written  by  a  passing  emigrant  on  the 
spot.  June  11,  1852. 

Another  version  of  his  fate  is  that  Scott  fell  sick 
and  was  abandoned  by  his  traveling  companions,  and 
after  having  crawled  near  forty  miles  finally  died 
near  the  "Bluffs,"  ever  after  bearing  his  name.  This 
occurred  prior  to  1830. 

The  Dead  of  the  Plains. 

From  the  "Bluffs"  we  drove  as  direct  as  possible 
to  that  historic  grave,  two  miles  out  from  the  town 
and  on  the  railroad  right  of  way.  of  Mrs.  Rebecca 
Winters,  who  died  August  15,  1852,  nearly  six  weeks 
after  I  had  passed  over  the  ground. 

—  95- 


But  for  the  handiwork  of  some  unknown  friend  or 
relative  this  grave,  like  thousands  and  thousands  of 
others  who  fell  by  the  wayside  in  those  strenuous 
days,  would  have  passed  out  of  sight  and  mind  and 
nestled  in  solitude  and  unknown  for  all  ages  to 
come. 

As  far  back  as  the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabi- 
tant runs,  a  lialf  sunken  wagon  tire  bore  this  sim- 
ple inscription,  "Rebecca  Winters,  aged  50  years." 
The  hoofs  of  stock  trampled  the  sunken  grave  and 
trod  it  into  dust,  but  the  arch  of  the  tire  remained 
to  defy  the  strength  of  thoughtless  hands  who  would 
have  removed  it,  and  of  the  ravages  of  time  that 
seem  not  to  have  affected  it.  Finally,  in  "the  lapse 
of  time'"  that  usual  non-respecter  of  persons — the 
railroad  surveyor — and  afterwards  the  rails  came 
along  and  would  have  run  the  track  over  the  lonely 
grave  but  for  the  tender  care  of  the  man  who  wielded 
the  compass  and  changed  the  line,  that  the  resting 
place  of  the  pioneer  should  not  be  disturbed,  fol- 
lowed by  the  noble  impulse  of  him  who  held  the 
power  to  control  the  "souless  corporation,"  and  the 
grave  was  protected  and  enclosed.  Then  came  the 
press  correspondent  and  the  press  to  herald  to  the 
world  the  pathos  of  the  lone  grave,  to  in  time  reach 
the  eyes  and  touch  the  hearts  of  the  descendants 
of  the  dead,  who  had  almost  passed  out  of  mind  and 
to  quicken  the  interest  in  the  memory  of  one  once 
dear  to  them,  till  in  time  there  arose  a  beautiful 
monument  lovingly  inscribed,  just  one  hundred  years 
after  the  birth  of  the  inmate  of  the   grave. 

As  T  looked  upon  this  grave,  now  surrounded  by 
green  fields  and  happy  homes,  my  mind  ran  back  to 
the  time  it  was  first  occupied  in  the  desert  (as  all 
believed  the  country  through  which  we  were  passing 
to  be),  and  the  awful  calamity  that  overtook  so  many 
to  carry  them  to  their  untimely  and  unknown  graves. 

The  ravages  of  choler.a  carried  off  thousands.  One 
family  of  seven  a  little  further  down  the  Platte,  lie 
all  in  one  grave;  forty-one  persons  of  one  train  dead 
in  one  day  and  two  nights  tells  but  part  of  the 
dreadful    story.      The    count    of    fifty-three    freshly 

—  96  — 


—  97  — 


made  graves  in  one  camp  ground  left  a  vivid  impress 
upon  my  mind  that  has  never  been  effaced,  as  like- 
wise that  of  meeting  nine  returning  teams  driven 
by  the  women  and  children,  the  men  all  dead.  But 
where  now  are  those  graves?  They  are  irrevocably 
lost.  1  can  recall  to  mind  one  point  where  seventy 
were  buried  in  one  little  group  not  one  of  the  graves 
now  to  be  seen — trampled  out  of  sight  by  the  hoofs 
of  the  millions  of  stock  later  passing  over  the  Trail. 

Bearing  this  in  mind,  how  precious  this  thought 
that  even  one  grave  has  been  rescued  from  oblivion, 
and  how  precious  will  become  the  memory  of  the 
deeds  of  those  who  have  so  freely  dedicated  their 
part  to  recall  the  events  of  the  past  and  to  honor 
those  sturdy  pioneers  who  survived  those  trying 
experiences  as  well  as  the  dead,  by  erecting  those 
monuments  that  now  line  the  Trail  for  nearly  two 
thousand  miles.  To  these,  one  and  all,  I  bow  my 
head  in  grateful  appreciation  of  their  aid  in  this 
work  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  pioneers, 
and  especialy  the  5,000  school  children  who  have 
each  contributed  their  mite  that  the  memory  of  the 
dead  pioneers  might  remain  fresh  in  their  minds 
and  the  minds  of  generations  to  follow. 

A  drive  of  seventeen  miles  brought  us  to  the 
fown  of  Bayard,  1.338  miles  on  the  way  from  The 
Dales,   Oregon,   where   our   continuous   drive   began. 

Chimney   Rock. 

Chimney  Rock  is  six  miles  southwesterly  in  full 
view,  a  curious  freak  of  nature  we  all  remembered 
while  passing  in  '52. 

The  base  reminds  one  of  an  umbrella  standing  on 
the  ground,  covering  perhaps  twelve  acres  and  run- 
ning, cone-shaped,  200  feet  to  the  base  of  the  spire 
resting  upon  it.  The  spire  (chimney)  points  to  the 
heavens,  which  would  entitle  the  pile  to  a  more  ap- 
propriate name,  as  like  a  church  spire,  tall  and  slim, 
the  wonder  of  all — how  it  comes  that  the  hand  of 
time  has  not  leveled  it  long  ago  and  mingled  its 
crumbling  substance  with  that  lying  at  its  base.  The 
whole  pile,  like  that  at  Scott's  Bluff  and  Court  House 

—  98  — 


Rock  further  down,  is  a  sort  of  soft  sandstone,  or 
cement  and  clay,  gradualy  crumbling  away  and  des- 
tined to  be  leveled  to  the  eartli  in  centuries  to  come. 

A  local  story  runs  that  an  army  officer  trained 
artillery  on  this  spire,  shot  off  about  thirty  feet  from 
the  top,  and  was  afterwards  court-martialed  and  dis- 
charged in  disgrace  from  the  army;  but  I  could  get 
no  definite  information,  though  the  story  was  re- 
peated again  and  again.  It  would  seem  incredible 
that  an  intelligent  man,  such  as  an  army  officer, 
would  do  such  an  act,  and  if  he  did  he  deserved 
severe   condemnation  and  punishment. 

I  noticed  that  at  Soda  Springs  the  hand  of  the 
vandal  had  been  at  work,  and  that  interesting  phe- 
nomenon, the  Steamboat  Sprin^g,  the  wonderment  of 
all  in  1852,  with  its  intermittent  spouting,  had  been 
tampered  with  and  ceased  to  act.  Tt  would  seem 
the  degenerates  are  not  all  dead  yet. 

North  Platte,  Nebraska. 

At  North  Platte  the  ladies  of  the  W.  C.  T.  U.  ap- 
pointed a  committee  to  undertake  to  erect  a  monu- 
ment, the  business  men  all  refusing  to  give  up  any 
time.  However,  W.  C.  Ritner,  a  respected  citizen 
of  North  Platte,  offered  to  donate  a  handsome  monu- 
ment with  a  cement  base,  marble  cap,  stone  and  ce- 
ment column,  five  and  a  half  feet  high,  which  will 
be  accepted  by  the  ladies  and  erected  in  a  suitable 
place. 

Obituary  Notice. 

Death  of  Twist. 

"Old  Oregon  Trail  Monument  Expedition.  Brady 
Island,  Neb.,  August  9.  1906,  Camp  No.  120,  odo- 
meter 1,536^.  Yesterday  morning  Twist  ate  his 
grain  as  usual  and  showed  no  signs  of  sickness  until 
we  were  on  the  road  two  or  three  miles,  when  he 
began  to  put  his  tongue  out  and  his  breathing  be- 
came heavy.  But  he  leaned  on  the  yoke  heavier 
than  usual  and  seemed  determined  to  pull  the  whole 
load.  I  finally  stopped,  put  him  on  the  off  side, 
gave   him    the    long    end    of   the    yoke    and    tied   his 

—  99  — 


head  back  with  the  halter  strap  to  the  chain,  but 
to  no  purpose,  for  he  pulled  by  the  head  very  heavy. 
I  finally  unyoked,  g"ave  him  a  quart  of  lard,  a  gill 
of  vinegar  and  a  handful  of  sugar,  but  all  to  no 
purpose,  for  he  soon  fell  down  and  in  two  hours 
was  dead." 

Such  is  the  record  in  my  journal  telling  of  the 
death  of  this  noble  animal,  which  I  think  died  from 
eating  some  poisonous  plant 

"AVhen  we  started  from  Camp  No.  1,  January 
29,  Puyallup,  Washington,  Twist  weighed  1,470 
pounds.  After  we  crossed  two  ranges  of  mountains; 
had  wallowed  iu  the  snows  of  the  Blue  Mountains; 
followed  the  tortuous  rocky  canyons  of  Burnt  river; 
up  the  deep  sand  of  the  Snake,  this  ox  had  gained  in 
weiiiht  ]??  pomidf,  nnd  weighed  1.607  pounds  while 


TWIST 
—  100  — 


laboring  under  the  short  end  of  the  yoke  that  gave 
him  fifty-five  per  cent  of  the  draft  and  an  an  in- 
creased burden  he  would  assume  by  keeping  his 
end  of  the  yoke  a  little  ahead,  no  matter  how  much 
the  mate   might   be  urged  to   keep  up. 

There  are  striking  individualities  in  animals  as 
well  as  in  men,  and  I  had  liked  to  have  said  vir- 
tues as  well;  and  why  not?  If  an  animal  always 
does  his  duty,  is  faithful  to  your  interest,  indus- 
trious— why  not  recognize  it,  even  if  he  was  'nothing 
but  an   ox?' 

We  are  wont  to  extol  the  virtue  of  the  dead,  and 
to  forget  their  shortcomings,  but  here,  a  plain  state- 
ment of  facts  will  suffice  to  revive  the  memories  of 
the  almost  forgotten  past  of  an  animal  so  dear  to 
the  pioneers  who  struggled  across  plains  and  over 
mountains  in   the   long  ago. 

To  understand  the  achievements  of  this  ox  it  is 
necessary  to  state  the  burden  he  carried.  The  wagon 
weighed  1,430  pounds,  is  a  wooden  axle  and  wide 
track  and  had  an  average  load  of  800  pounds.  He 
had,  with  an  unbroken  four-year-old  steer — a  nat- 
ural-born shirk — with  the  short  end  of  the  yoke  be- 
fore mentioned,  hauled  this  wagon  1,776  miles  and 
was  in  better  working  trim  when  he  died  than 
when  the  trip  began.  And  yet,  am  I  sure  that  at 
some  points  I  did  not  abuse  him?  What  about  com- 
ing up  out  of  Little  Canyon  or  rather  up  the  steep 
rocky  steps  of  stones  like  veritable  stairs,  when  I 
used  the  goad,  and  he  pulled  a  shoe  ofif  and  his  feet 
from  under  him?  Was  I  merciful  then,  or  did  I  ex- 
act more  than  I  ought?  I  can  see  him  yet  in  my 
mind,  while  on  his  knees  holding  the  wagon  from 
rolling  back  into  the  canyon  till  the  wheel  could 
be  blocked  and  the  brakes  set.  Then  when  bid  to 
start  the  load,  he  did  not  flinch.  He  was  the  best 
ox  I  ever  saw,  without  exception,  and  his  loss  has 
nearly  broken  up  the  expedition,  and  it  is  one  case 
where  his  like  can  not  be  obtained.  He  has  had  a 
decent  burial,  and  a  head-board  will  mark  his  grave 
and  recite  his  achievements  in  the  valuable  aid  ren- 
dered in  this  expedition  to  perpetuate  the  memory 

—  101  — 


of  the  Old  Oregon  Trail  and  for  which  he  has  given 
up  his  life." 

What  shall  I  do?  Abandon  the  work?  No.  But 
I  can  not  go  on  with  one  ox,  and  can  not  remain 
here.  And  so  a  horse  team  was  hired  to  take  us  to 
the  next  town,  Gothenburg — thirteen  miles  distant— 
and  the  lone  ox  led  behind  the  wagon. 

"Gothenburg,  Nebraska,  August  10,  1906,  Camp 
No.  121,  odometer  1,549.  The  people  here  resolved 
to  erect  a  monument,  appointed  a  committee,  and  a 
contribution  of  some  fifteen  dollars  was  secured. 

Lexington. 

Again  hired  a  horse  team  to  haul  the  wagon  to 
Lexington.  At  Lexington  I  thought  the  loss  of  the 
ox  could  be  repaired  by  buying  a  pair  of  heavy 
cows  and  breaking  them  in  to  work,  and  so  pur- 
chased two  out  of  a  band  of  200  cattle  nearby.  'Why, 
yes.  of  course  they  will  work,'  I  said,  when  a  by- 
stander had  asked  the  question.  'Why,  I  have  seen 
whole  teams  of  cows  on  the  Plains  in  '52,  and  they 
would  trip  along  so  merrily  one  would  be  tempted 
to  turn  the  oxen  out  and  get  cows.  Yes,  we  will 
soon  have  a  team,'  I  said,  'only  we  can't  go  very 
far  in  a  day  with  a  raw  team,  especially  in  this  hot 
weather.'  But  one  of  the  cows  wouldn't  go  at  all; 
we  could  not  lead  or  drive  her.  Put  her  in  the 
yoke  and  she  would  stand  stock  still  just  like  a 
stubborn  mule.  Hitch  the  yoke  by  a  strong  rope 
behind  the  wagon  with  a  hofse  team  to  pull,  she 
would  brace  her  feet  and  actually  slide  along,  but 
wouldn't  lift  a  foot.  I  never  saw  such  a  brute  be- 
fore, and  hope  I  never  will  again.  I  have  broken 
wild,  fighting,  kicking  steers  to  the  yoke  and  en- 
joyed the  sport,  but  from  a  sullen  tame  cow  deliver 
me. 

"Won't  you  take  her  back  and  give  me  another?" 
I  asked.  "Yes,  I  will  give  you  that  red  cow  (one  T 
had  rejected  as  unfit),  but  not  one  of  the  others." 
"Then  what  is  this  cow  worth  to  you?"  Back  came 
the  response,  "Thirty  dollars,"  and  so  I  dropped  ten 
dollars   (having  paid  him  forty),  lost  the  better  part 

—  102  — 


of  a  day,  experienced  a  good  deal  of  vexation.  "Oh, 
if  I  could  only  have  Twist  back  again." 

The  fact  gradually  dawned  upon  me  that  the  loss 
of  that  fine  ox  was  almost  irreparable.  I  could  not 
get  track  of  an  ox  anywhere  nor  of  even  a  steer 
large  enough  to  mate  the  Dave  ox.  Besides,  Dave 
always  was  a  fool.  I  could  scarcely  teach  him  any- 
thing. He  did  learn  to  haw,  by  the  word  when  on 
the  oflF-side,  but  wouldn't  mind  the  word  a  bit  if  on 
the  near-side.  Then  he  would  hold  his  head  way 
up  while  in  the  yoke  as  if  he  disdained  to  work,  and 
poke  his  tongue  out  at  the  least  bit  of  warm  weather 
or  serious  work.  Then  he  didn't  have  the  stamina 
of  Twist.  Although  given  the  long  end  of  the  yoke, 
so  that  Twist  would  pull  fifty-five  per  cent  of  the 
load,  Dave  would  always  lag  behind.  Here  was  a 
case  where  the  individuality  of  the  ox  was  as  marked 
as  ever  between  man  and  man.  Twist  would  watch 
my  every  motion  and  mind  by  the  wave  of  the  hand, 
but  Dave  never  minded  anything  except  to  shirk 
hard  work,  while  Twist  always  seemed  to  love  his 
work  and  would  go  freely  all  day.  And  so  it  was 
brought  home  to  me  more  forcibly  than  ever  that  in 
the  loss  of  the  Twist  ox  I  had  almost  lost  the 
whole  team. 

Now,  if  this  had  occurred  in  1852,  the  loss  could 
have  been  easily  remedied,  where  there  were  so 
many  "broke"  cattle,  and  where  there  were  always 
several  yoke  to  the  wagon.  So  when  I  drove  out 
with  a  hired  horse  team  that  day  with  the  Dave  ox 
tagging  on  behind  and  sometimes  pulling  on  his 
halter,  and  an  unbroken  cow,  it  may  easily  be 
guessed  the  pride  of  anticipated  success  went  out, 
and  a  feeling  akin  to  despair  seized  upon  me.  Here 
I  had  two  yokes,  one  a  heavy  ox  yoke  and  the  other 
a  light  cow's  yoke,  but  the  cow,  I  thought,  could 
not  be  worked  alongside  the  ox  in  the  ox  yoke,  nor 
the  ox  with  the  cow  in  the  cow  yoke,  and  so  there 
I  was  without  a  team  but  with  a  double  encum- 
brance. 

Yes,  the  ox  has  passed — has  had  his  day,  for  in 
all  this  state  I  have  been  unable  to  find  even  one 

—  103  — 


yoke.  So  I  trudged  along,  sometimes  behind  the  led 
cattle,  wondering  in  my  mind  whether  or  no  I  had 
been  foolish  to  undertake  this  expedition  to  perpetu- 
ate the  memory  of  the  Old  Oregon  Trail.  Had  I 
not  been  rebuffed  by  a  number  of  business  men  who 
pushed  the  subject  aside  with,  "I  have  no  time  to 
look  into  it?''  Hadn't  I  been  compelled  to  pass 
several  towns  where  even  three  persons  could  not 
be  found  to  act  on  the  committee.''  And  then  there 
was  the  experience  of  the  constant  suspicion  and 
watch  to  see  if  some  graft  could  not  be  discovered — 
some  lurking  speculation.  All  this  could  be  borne  in 
patience,  but  when  coupled  with  it  came  the  virtual 
loss  of  the  team,  is  it  strange  that  my  spirits  went 
down  below  a  normal  condition? 

But  then  came  the  compensatory  thought  as  to 
what  had  been  accomplished;  how  three  states  had 
responded  cordialy,  and  a  fourth  as  well,  considering 
the  sparse  population.  How  could  I  account  for 
the  difference  in  the  reception?  It  was  the  press. 
In  the  first  place,  the  newspapers  took  up  the  work 
in  advance  of  my  coming,  while  in  the  latter  case 
the  notices  and  commendation  followed  my  pres- 
ence in  a  town.  And  so  I  queried  in  my  mind  as  we 
trudged  along — after  all,  I  am  sowing  the  seed  that 
will  bring  the  harvest  later.  Then  my  mind  would 
run  back  along  the  line  of  over  1,500  miles,  where 
stand  twenty-nine  sentinels,  mostly  granite,  to  pro- 
claim for  the  centuries  to  come  that  the  hand  of 
communities  had  been  at  work  and  planted  these 
shafts  that  the  memory  of  the  dead  pioneers  might 
live;  where  a  dozen  boulders,  including  the  great  In- 
dependence Rock,  also  bear  this  testimony,  and  where 
a  hundred  wooden  posts  mark  the  Trail,  when  stone 
was  unobtainable.  I  recalled  the  cordial  reception 
in  so  many  places;  the  outpouring  of  contributions 
from  5,000  school  children;  the  liberal  hand  of  the 
people  that  built  these  monuments;  the  more  than 
20,000  people  attending  the  dedication  ceremonies. 
And  while  I  trudged  along  and  thought  of  the  en- 
couragement that  I  had  received,  I  forgot  all  about 
the  loss  of  Twist,  the  recalcitrant  cow,  the  dilemma 

—  104  — 


that  confronted  me,  only  to  awaken  from  my  reverie 
in  a  more  cheerful  mood.  "Do  the  best  you  can,"  I 
said  almost  in  an  audible  tone,  "and  be  not  cast 
down"  and  my  spirits  rose  almost  to  the  point  of 
exultation. 

Kearney,   Nebraska. 

At  that  beautiful  city  of  Kearney  we  were  ac- 
corded a  fine  camping  place  in  the  center  of  the 
town  under  the  spreading  boughs  of  the  shade  trees 
that  line  the  streets,  and  a  nice  green,  fresh-cut 
sward  upon  which  to  pitch  our  tents.  The  people 
came  in  great  numbers  to  visit  the  camp  and  ex- 
press their  approval  as  to  the  object  of  the  trip.  I 
said,  "Here,  we  will  surely  get  a  splendid  monu- 
ment," but  when  I  came  to  consult  with  the  busi- 
ness men,  not  one  could  be  found  to  give  up  any 
time  to  the  work,  though  many  seemed  interested. 
The  president  of  the  commercial  club  even  refused 
to  call  a  meeting  of  the  club  to  consider  the  subject, 
because  he  said  he  had  no  time  to  attend  the  meet- 
ing and  thought  most  of  the  members  would  be  the 
same.  I  did  not  take  it  this  man  was  opposed  to 
the  proposed  work,  but  honestly  felt  there  were 
more  important  matters  pressing  upon  the  time  of 
business  men,  and  said  the  subject  could  be  taken 
up  at  their  regular  meeting  in  the  near  future.  As 
I  left  this  man's  office,  who,  I  doubted  not,  had 
spoken  the  truth,  I  wondered  to  myself  if  these  busy 
men  would  ever  find  time  to  die.  How  did  they 
find  time  to  eat?  or  to  sleep?  and  I  queried.  Is  a 
business  man's  life  worth  the  living,  if  all  his  wake- 
ful moments  are  absorbed  in  grasping  for  gains? 
But  I  am  admonished  that  this  query  must  be  an- 
swered each  for  himself,  and  I  reluctantly  came  away 
from  Kearney  without  accomplishing  the  object  of 
my  visit,  and  wondering  whether  my  mission  was 
ended  and  results  finished. 

The  reader  will  readily  see  that  I  would  be  the 
more  willing  listener  to  such  an  inner  suggestion, 
in  view  of  my  crippled  condition  to  carry  on  the 
work.  And  might  not  that  condition  have  a  bearing 
to  bring  about  such  results?     No.     For  the  people 

—  105  — 


—  106— 


seemed  to  be  greatly  interested  and  sympathetic. 
The  press  was  particularly  kind  in  their  notices, 
commending  the  work,  but  it  takes  time  to  arouse 
the  business  men  to  action,  as  one  remarked  to  me, 
"You  can't  hurry  us  to  do  anything;  we  are  not  that 
kind  of  a  set."  This  was  said  in  a  tone  bordering 
on  the  offensive,  though  perhaps  expressing  only  a 
truth. 

And  now  again  the  ladies  have  come  to  the  rescue. 
Four  years  later  the  "Fort  Kearney  Chapter  of  the 
D.  A.  R.  dedicated  a  beautiful  monument — a  monu- 
ment to  their  zeal  and  love  for  a  noble  work.  I  say 
again:   God  bless  the  ladies. 

Grand  Island,  Nebraska. 

1  did  not,  however,  feel  willing  to  give  up  the 
work  after  having  accomplished  so  much  on  the 
1,700  miles  traveled,  and  with  less  than  200  miles 
ahead  of  me,  and  so  I  said,  "I  will  try  again  at 
Grand  Island,"  the  next  plac«  where  there  was  a 
center  of  population,  that  an  effort  would  probably 
succeed.  Here  I  found  there  was  a  decided  public 
sentiment  in  favor  of  taking  action,  but  at  a  later 
date — next  year — jointly  to  honor  the  local  pioneers 
upon  the  occasion  of  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the 
settlement  around  and  about  the  city;  and  so,  this 
dividing  the  attention  of  the  people,  it  was  not 
thought  best  to  undertake  the  work  now,  and  again 
I   bordered   on   the   slough  of  despondency. 

I  could  not  repeat  the  famous  words,  I  would 
"fight  it  out  on  this  line  if  it  takes  all  summer,"  for 
here  it  is  the  30th  of  August,  and  in  one  day  more 
summer  will  be  gone.  Neither  could  I  see  how  to 
accomplish  more  than  prepare  the  way,  and  that 
now  the  press  is  doing,  and  sowing  seed  upon 
kindly  ground  that  will  in  the  future  bring  forth 
abundant  harvest. 

Gradually  the  fact  became  uppermost  in  my  mind 
that  I  was  powerless  to  move;  that  my  team  was 
gone.  No  response  came  to  the  extensive  advertise- 
ments for  an  ox  or  a  yoke  of  oxen,  showing  clearly 
there  were  none  in  the  country,  and  that  the  only 
way  to  repair  the  damage  was  to  get  unbroken  steeri 

-107  — 


Or  cows  and  break  them  in.  This  could  not  be  done 
in  hot  weather  or  at  least  cattle  unused  to  work 
could  not  go  under  the  yoke  and  render  effective 
service  while  seasoning,  and  so,  for  the  time  being, 
the  work  on  the  Trail  was  suspended. 

As  I  write  in  this  beautiful  grove  of  the  "old 
court  house  grounds,"  in  the  heart  of  this  embryo 
city  of  Grand  Island  with  its  stately  rows  of  shade 
trees,  its  modest,  elegant  homes,  the  bustle  and  stir 
on  its  business  streets  with  the  constant  passing  of 
trains,  shrieking  of  whistles,  ringing  of  bells  the 
reminder  of  a  great  change  in  conditions,  my  mind 
reverts  back  to  that  June  day  of  1852  when  I  passed 
over  the  ground  near  where  the  city  stands.  Vast 
herds  of  buffalo  then  grazed  on  the  hills  or  leisurely 
crossed  our  track  and  at  times  obstructed  our  way. 
Flocks  of  antelope  frisked  on  the  outskirts  or 
watched  from  vantage  points.  The  prairie  dogs 
reared  their  heads  in  comical  attitude,  burrowing, 
it  was  said,  with  the  rattlesnake,  the  badger  and 
the  owl. 

But  now  these  dog  colonies  are  gone;  the  buffalo 
has  gone;  the  antelope  has  disappeared;  as  likewise 
the  Indian.  Now  all  is  changed.  Instead  of  the 
parched  plain  we  saw  in  1852  with  its  fierce  clouds 
of  dust  rolling  up  the  valey  and  engulfing  whole 
trains  until  not  a  vestige  of  them  could  be  seen,  we 
see  the  landscape  of  smiling,  fruitful  fields,  of  con- 
tented homes,  of  inviting  clumps  of  trees  dotting 
the  landscape.  The  hand  of  man  has  changed  what 
we  looked  upon  as  a  barren  plain  to  that  of  a  fruit- 
ful land.  Where,  then,  there  were  only  stretches 
of  buffalo  grass  now  waving  fields  of  grain  and  great 
fields  of  corn  send  forth  abundant  harvests.  Yes, 
we  may  again  exclaim,  "What  wondrous  changes 
time  has  wrought." 

At  Grand  Island  I  shipped  to  Fremont,  Neb.,  to 
head  the  procession  celebrating  the  semi-centennial 
of  founding  that  city,  working  the  ox  and  cow  to- 
gether; thence  to  Lincoln,  where  the  first  edition  of 
this  volume  was  printed,  all  the  while  searching  for 
an  ox  or  a  steer  large  enough  to  mate  the  Dave  ox, 

—  108  — 


but  without  avail,  finally,  aftef  looking  over  a 
thousand  head  of  cattle  in  the  stockyards  of  Omaha, 
a  five-year-old  steer  was  found  and  broken  in  on  the 
way  to  Indianapolis,  where  I  arrived  January  5,  1907, 
eleven  months  and  seven  days  from  date  of  departure 
from  my  home  at   Puyallup,  2,600  miles  distant. 


BREAKING  DANDY  ON  THE  STREETS  OF  OMAHA 


—  109  — 


FfOffl  Iiidiattapdiig  ta  Washiflgfcofl. 

Upon  my  arrival  in  Indianapolis,  people  began  to 
ask  me  about  the  Trail,  and  to  say  they  had  never 
heard  that  the  Oregon  Trail  ran  through  that  city, 
to  which  I  replied  I  never  had  ever  heard  that  it  did. 
A  quizzical  look  sometimes  would  bring  out  an  ex- 
planation that  the  intent  of  the  expedition  was  as 
much  to  work  upon  the  hearts  of  the  people  as  to 
work  upon  the  Trail  itself;  that  what  we  wanted, 
was  to  fire  the  imagination  of  the  people  and  get 
them  first  to  know  there  was  such  a  thing  as  the 
Oregon  Trail  and  then  to  know  what  it  meant  in 
history. 

After  passing  the  Missouri,  and  leaving  the  Trail 
behind  me  1  somehow  had  a  foreboding  that  I 
might  be  mistaken  for  a  faker  and  looked  upon 
either  as  an  adventurer  or  a  sort  of  a  "wandering 
Jew"  and  shrank  from  the  ordeal.  My  hair  had 
grown  long  on  the  trip  across;  my  boots  were  some 
the  worse  for  wear  and  my  old-fashioned  suit  (un- 
derstood well  enough  by  pioneers  along  the  Trail) 
that  showed  dilapidation  all  combined,  made  me 
not  the  most  presentable  in  every  sort  of  company. 
Coupled  with  that  had  I  not  already  been  com- 
pelled to  say  that  I  was  not  a  "corn  doctor"  or  any 
kind  of  a  doctor;  that  I  did  not  have  patent  medi- 
cine or  any  other  sort  of  medicine  to  sell,  and  that 
I  was  neither  soliciting  or  receiving  contributions 
to  support  the  expedition.  I  had  early  in  the  trip 
realized  the  importance  of  disarming  criticism  or 
suspicion  that  there  was  graft  or  speculation  in  the 
work.  And  yet,  day  after  day,  there  would  come 
questions  pointed  or  otherwise  evidently  to  probe 
to  the  bottom  to  find  out  if  there  was  lurking  some- 
where or  somehow  an  ulterior  object  not  appearing 
on  the  surface.  There  being  none,  the  doubters 
would  be  disarmed  only  to  make  way  for  a  new 
crop,  maybe  the  very  next  hour. 

But  the  press,  with  but  one  exception  had  been 
exceedingly  kind,  and  understood  the  work.     It  re- 

—  110  — 


mained  for  one  man*  of  the  thousand  or  more  who 
wrote  of  the  work,  at  a  later  date  to  write  of  his 
"suspicions."  I  wrote  that  gentleman  that  "sus- 
picions as  to  one's  motives  were  of  the  same  cloth 
as  the  "breath  of  scandal"  against  a  fair  lady's  char- 
acter, leaving  the  victim  helpless  without  amend 
honorable  from  the  party  himself,  and  gave  him 
full  information,  but  he  did  not  respond  nor  so  far 
as  I  know  publish  any  explanation  of  the  article  in 
his  paper. 

March  1st,  1907,  found  me  on  the  road  going  east- 
ward from  Indianapolis.  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
that  Washington  City  should  be  the  objective  point, 
and  that  Congress  would  be  a  better  field  to  work 
in  than  out  on  the  hopelessly  wide  stretch  of  the 
Trail  where  one  man's  span  of  life  would  certainly 
run  before  the  work  could  be  accomplished. 

But,  before  reaching  Congress,  it  was  well  to 
spend  a  season  or  campaign  of  education  or  man- 
age somehow  to  get  the  work  before  the  general 
public  so  that  the  Congress  might  know  about  it,  or 
at  least  that  many  members  might  have  heard  about 
it.  So  a  route  was  laid  out  to  occupy  the  time  un- 
til the  first  of  December,  just  before  Congress  would 
again  assemble  and  be  with  them  "in  the  beginning." 
The  route  lay  from  Indianapolis,  through  Hamilton, 
Ohio,  Dayton,  Columbus,  Buffalo,  then  Syracuse, 
Albany.  New  York  City,  Trenton,  N.  J.,  Philadel- 
phia. Pa.,  Baltimore,  Md.,  thence  to  Washington, 
visiting  intermediate  points  along  the  route  out- 
lined. This  would  seem  to  be  quite  a  formidable 
undertaking  with  one  yoke  of  oxen  and  a  big  "prai- 
rie schooner"  wagon  that  weighed  1.400  pounds,  a 
wooden  axle,  that  would  squeak  at  times  if  not 
watched  closely  with  tar  bucket  in  hand;  and  a  load 
of  a  thousand  oounds  or  more  of  camp  equipage, 
etc.  And  so  it  was,  but  the  reader  may  recall  the 
fable  of  the  "tortoise  and  the  hare"  and  find  the 
lesson  of  persvstance  that  gave  the  race,  not  to  the 

♦William  Allen  White. 

—  Ill  — 


swiftest  afoot.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  on  the  29th  of 
November,  1907,  twenty-two  months  to  a  day  after 
leaving  home  at  Puyallup,  I  drew  up  in  front  of  the 
White  House  in  Washington  City,  was  kindly  re- 
ceived by  President  Roosevelt,  and  encouraged  to 
believe  my  labor  had  not  been  lost. 

The  general  reader  may  not  be  interested  in  the 
details  of  my  varied  experiences  in  the  numrous 
towns  and  cities  through  which  I  passed,  neverthe- 
less there  were  incidents  in  some  of  them  well  worth 
recording. 

As  noted  before,  the  press,  from  the  beginning, 
seemed  to  understand  the  object,  and  enter  into  the 
spirit  of  the  work.  It  remained  for  one  paper  dur- 
ing the  whole  trip  (Hamilton,  Ohio),  to  solicit 
pay  for  a  notice.  My  look  of  astonishment  or 
something  else  it  seems  wrought  a  change,  and  the 
notice  appeared,  and  I  am  able  to  record  that  not 
one  cent  was  paid  to  the  press  during  the  whole 
trip,  and  I  think  fully  a  thousand  articles  have  been 
published  outlining  and  commending  the  work.  Had 
it  not  been  for  the  press,  no  such  progress  as  has 
been  made  could  have  been  accomplished,  and  if  the 
appropriation  be  made  by  Congress  to  mark  the 
Trail,  the  press  did  it,  not,  however,  forgetting  the 
patient  oxen  who  did  their  part  so  well. 

An  interesting  incident,  to  me  at  least,  occurred  in 
passing  through  the  little  town  of  Huntsville,  ten 
miles  east  of  Hamilton,  Ohio,  where  I  was  born, 
and  had  not  seen  for  more  than  seventy  years.  A 
snap  shot  at  the  old  house  where  I  was  born  did 
me  no  good,  for  at  Dayton  some  vandal  stole  my 
kodak,  film  and  all,  containing  the  precious  im- 
pression. 

Dayton  treated  me  nicely,  bought  a  goodly  num- 
ber of  my  books  and  sent  me  on  my  way  rejoicing 
with  no  further  feeling  of  solicitude  toward  financ- 
ing the  expedition.  I  had  had  particularly  bad  luck 
in  the  loss  of  my  fine  ox;  then  when  the  cows  were 
bought  and  one  of  them  wouldn't  go  at  all,  and  I 
was  compeled  to  ship  the  outfit  to  Omaha,  more 
than  a  hundred  miles;  and  was  finally  forced  to  buy 

—  112  — 


the  unbroken  steer  Dandy,  out  of  the  stock  yards 
at  Omaha,  and  what  was  more,  pay  out  all  the 
money  I  could  rake  and  scrape,  save  seven  dolars, 
small  wonder  I  should  leave  Dayton  with  a  feeling 
of  relief  brought  about  by  the  presence  in  my  pocket 
of  some  money  not  drawn  from  home.  I  had  had 
other  experiences  of  discouragement  as  well;  when 
I  first  put  the  "Ox  Team"  in  print,  it  was  almost 
"with  fear  and  trembling" — would  the  public  buy 
it?  I  could  not  know  without  trying  and  so  a  thou- 
sand copies  only  were  printed,  which  of  course 
brought  them  up  to  a  high  price  per  copy.  But 
these  sold,  and  two  thousand  more  copies  printed 
and  sold,  and  was  about  even  on  the  expense,  when 
lo  and  behold,  my  plates  and  cuts  were  burned  and 
a  new  beginning  had  to  be  made. 

Mayor  Badger  of  Columbus  wrote  giving  me  the 
"Freedom  of  the  City,"  and  Mayor  Tom  Johnson 
wrote  to  his  chief  of  police,  to  "Treat  Mr.  Meeker 
as  the  guest  of  the  city,"  which  he  did. 

At  Buffalo,  N.  Y.,  though,  the  mayor  would  have 
none  of  it,  unless  I  would  pay  one  hundred  dollars 
license  fee,  which,  of  course,  I  would  not.  For- 
tunately, though,  a  camping  ground  was  found  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  city,  and  I  received  a  hearty 
welcome  from  the  citizens,  and  a  good  hearing  as 
well.  A  pleasant  episode  occurred  here  to  while 
away  the  time  as  well  as  to  create  a  good  feeling. 
The  upper  400  of  Buffalo  were  preparing  to  give  a 
benefit  to  one  of  the  hospitals  in  the  shape  of  a 
circus.  Elaborate  preparations  had  been  made  and 
a  part  of  the  program  was  an  attack  by  Indians  on 
an  emigrant  train,  the  Indians  being  the  well  mount- 
ed young  representatives  of  the  city's  elite.  At  this 
juncture  I  arrived  in  the  city,  and  was  besieged  to 
go  and  represent  the  emigrant  train,  for  which  they 
would  pay  me,  but  I  said  "No,  not  for  pay,  but  I 
will  go,"  and  so  there  was  a  realistic  show  in  the 
"ring"  that  afternoon  and  evening,  and  the  hospital 
received  over  a  thousand  dollar  benefit. 

Near  Oneida  some  one  said  I  had  better  take  to 
the  tow-path  on  the  canal  and  save  distance,  beside*; 

—  113  — 


avoid  going  over  th«  hill,  adding  that  while  it  was 
against  the  law,  everybody  did  it  and  no  one  would 
object.  So,  when  we  came  t«)  the  forks  of  the  road, 
I  followed  the  best  beaten  track  and  soon  found 
ourselves  traveling  along  on  the  level,  hard  but 
narrow  way,  the  tow-path.  All  went  well  and  just 
at  evening  on  the  elevated  bridge  across  the  canal, 
three  mules  were  crossing,  and  a  canal-boat  was 
seen  on  the  opposite  side,  evidently  preparing  to 
■'camp"  for  the  night.  With  the  kodak  we  were  able 
to  catch  the  last  mule's  ears  as  he  was  backed  into 
the  boat  for  the  night,  but  not  so  fortunate  the 
next  day  when  a  boat  with  three  men,  two  women 
and  three  long  eared  mules  were  squarely  met, 
the  latter  on  the  tow-path.  The  mules  took  fright, 
got  into  a  regular  mix-up,  broke  the  harness  and 
went  up  the  tow-path  at  a  2:40  gait,  and  were  with 
difficulty  brought   under  control. 

I  had  walked  into  Oneida  the  night  before,  and  so 
did  not  see  the  sight  or  hear  the  war  of  words  that 
followed.  The  men  ordered  W.  to  "take  that  outfit 
oflf  the  tow-path,"  his  answer  was  that  he  could  not 
do  it  without  up-setting  the  wagon.  The  men  said 
if  he  would  not,  they  would  d n  quick  and  start- 
ed toward  the  wagon  evidently  intent  to  execute 
their  threat,  meanwhile  swearing  in  chorus  and 
the  women  swearing  in  chorus,  one  of  them  fairly 
shrieking.  My  old  and  trusted  muzzle-loading 
rifle  that  we  had  carried  across  the  Plains  more 
than  fifty-five  years  before  lay  handy  by,  and 
so  when  the  men  started  toward  him,  W.  picked 
up  the  rifle  to  show  fight,  and  called  on  the  dog 
Jim  to  take  hold  of  the  men.  As  he  raised  the 
gun  to  use  as  a  club,  one  of  the  boatmen  threw 
up  his  hands,  bawling  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  "Don't 
shoot,  don't  shoot,"  forgot  to  mix  in  oaths,  and  slunk 
out  of  sight  behind  the  wagon;  the  others  also  drew 
back,  Jim  showed  his  teeth  and  a  truce  followed 
when  one  of  the  women  became  hysterical  and  the 
other  called  loudly  for  help.  With  but  little  incon- 
venience the  mules  were  taken  oflF  the  path  and  the 
team  drove  on,  whereupon  a  volley  of  oaths  were 

—  114  — 


hurled  at  the  object  of  all  the  trouble  in  which  the 
women  joined  at  the  top  of  their  voices  continuing 
as  long  as  they  could  be  heard,  one  of  them  shriek- 
ing— drunk  W.  thinks. 

The  fun  of  it  was,  the  gun  that  had  spread  such 
consternation  hadn't  been  loaded  for  more  than 
twenty-five  years,  but  the  sight  of  it  was  enough 
for  the  three  stalwart  braves  of  the  "raging  canal." 

I  vowed  then  and  there  that  we  would  travel  no 
more   on  the   tow-path   of  the   canal. 

When  I  came  to  Albany,  the  mayor  wouldn't  talk 
to  me  after  taking  a  look  at  my  long  hair.  He  was 
an  old  man,  and  as  I  was  afterwards  told,  a  "broken- 
down  politician"  (whatever  that  may  mean).  At 
any  rate  he  treated  me  quite  rudely  I  thought, 
though  I  presume,  in  his  opinion,  it  was  the  best 
way  to  get  rid  of  a  nuisance,  and  so  I  passed  on 
through  the  city. 

But  it  took  New  York  City  to  cap  the  climax — to 
bring  me  all  sorts  of  experiences,  sometimes  with  the 
police,  sometimes  with  the  gaping  crowds,  and 
sometimes  at  the  city  hall. 

Mayor  McLellan  was  not  in  the  city  when  I  ar- 
rived, but  the  acting  mayor  said,  that  while  he  could 
not  grant  a  permit,  to  come  on  in — he  would  have 
the  police  commissioner  instruct  his  men  not  to  mo- 
lest me.  Either  the  instructions  were  not  general 
enough  or  else  the  men  paid  no  attention  for  when 
I  got  down  as  far  as  161st  street  on  Amsterdam 
avenue,  a  policeman  interfered  and  ordered  my  driver 
to  take  the  team  to  the  police  station,  which  he 
very  properly  refused  to  do.  It  was  after  dark 
and  I  had  just  gone  around  the  corner  to  engage 
quarters  for  the  night  when  this  ocurred;  returning 
I  saw  the  young  polieman  attempt  to  move  the 
team,  but  as  he  didn't  know  how,  they  wouldn't 
budge  a  peg,  whereupon  he  arrested  mj'  driver,  and 
took  him  away.  Just  then  another  polieman  tried  to 
coax  me  to  drive  the  team  down  to  the  police  station, 
I  said,  "No,  sir,  I  will  not."  He  said  there  were 
good  stables  down  there,  whereupon  I  told  him  I  had 
already  engaged  a  stable,  and  would  drive  to  it  nn- 

-115- 


less  prevented  by  force.  The  crowd  had  become 
large  and  began  jeering  the  policeman.  The  situa- 
tion was  that  he  couldn't  drive  the  team  to  the  sta- 
tion, and  I  wouldn't,  and  so  there  we  were.  To 
arrest  me  would  make  matters  worse  by  leaving  the 
team  on  the  street  without  any  one  to  care  for  it, 
and  so  finally  the  fellow  got  out  of  the  way,  and  I 
drove  the  team  to  the  stable,  he,  as  well  as  a  large 
crowd,  following.  As  soon  as  I  was  in  the  stable 
he  told  me  to  come  along  with  him  to  the  police 
station;  I  told  him  I  would  go  when  I  got  the  team 
attended  to,  but  not  before  unless  he  wished  to  carry 
me.  The  up-shot  of  the  matter  was  that  by  this 
time  the  captain  of  the  precinct  arrived  and  called 
his  man  off,  and  ordered  my  driver  released.  He 
had  had  some  word  from  the  city  hall  but  had  not 
notified  his  men.  It  transpired  there  was  an  ordi- 
nance against  allowing  cattle  to  be  driven  on  the 
streets  of  New  York.  Of  course,  this  was  intended 
to  apply  to  loose  cattle,  but  the  police  interpreted 
it  to  mean  any  cattle,  and  had  the  clubs  to  enforce 
their  interpretation.  I  was  in  the  city,  and  couldn't 
get  out  without  subjecting  myself  to  arrest  accord- 
ing to  their  version  of  the  laws,  and  in  fact  I  didn't 
want  to  get  out.  I  wanted  to  drive  down  Broadway 
from  one  end  to  the  other,  which  I  did,  a  month 
later,  as  will  presently  be  related. 

All  hands  said  nothing  short  of  an  ordinance  by 
the  Board  of  Aldermen  would  clear  the  way;  so  I 
tackled  the  Aldermen.  The  New  York  Tribune 
sent  a  man  over  to  the  city  hall  to  intercede  for  me; 
the  New  York  Herald  did  the  same  thing,  and  so  it 
came  about,  the  Aldermen  passed  an  ordinance 
granting  me  the  right  of  way  for  thirty  days,  and 
also  endorsed  my  work.  I  thought  my  trouble  was 
over  when  that  passed.  Not  so,  the  mayor  was  ab- 
sent, and  the  acting  mayor  could  not  sign  an  ordi- 
nance until  after  ten  days  had  elapsed.  Then  the 
city  attorney  came  in  and  said  the  Aldermen  had 
exceeded  their  authority  as  they  could  not  legally 
grant  a  special  privilege.  Then  the  acting  mayor 
said  he  would  not  sign  the  ordinance,  but  if  I  would 

—  116  — 


wait  until  tlic  next  meeting  of  tlie  Aldermen,  if 
they  did  not  rescind  the  ordinance,  it  would  be  cer- 
tified as  he  would  not  veto  it,  and  that  as  no  one 
was  likely  to  test  the  legality  he  thought  I  would  be 
safe  in  acting  as  thougii  it  was  legal,  and  so,  just 
thirty  days  from  the  time  I  had  the  bother  with  the 
police,  and  had  incurred  $250.00  expense,  I  drove 
down  Broadway  from  161st  street  to  the  Battery, 
without  a  slip  or  getting  into  any  serious  scrape  of 
any  kind  except  with  one  automobilist  who  became 
angered,  but  afterwards  became  "as  good  as  pie," 
as  the  old  saying  goes.  The  rain  fell  in  torrents  as 
we  neared  the  Battery.  I  had  engaged  quarters  for 
the  cattle  near  by,  but  the  stablemen  went  back  on 
me,  and  wouldn't  let  me  in,  and  so  drove  up  Water 
street  a  long  way  before  finding  a  place  and  then 
was  compelled  to  pay  $4.00  for  stable  room  and  hay 
for  the  cattle  over  night. 

Thirty  days  satisfied  me  with  New  York.  The 
fact  was  the  crowds  were  so  great  that  congestion 
of  traffic  always  followed  my  presence,  and  I  would 
be  compeled  to  move.  I  went  one  day  to  the  City 
Hall  Park  to  get  the  Greely  statue  photographed 
with  my  team,  and  could  not  get  away  without  the 
help  of  the  police,  and  even  then  with  great  diffi- 
culty. 

A  trip  across  Brooklyn  bridge  to  Brooklyn  was 
made,  but  I  found  the  congestion  there  almost  as 
great  as  in  the  city  proper.  The  month  I  was  on 
the  streets  of  New  York  was  a  month  of  anxiety, 
and  I  was  glad  enough  to  get  out  of  the  city  on  the 
17th  of  October,  just  thirty  days  after  the  drive 
down  Broadway,  and  sixty  days  after  the  hold-up 
on  161st  street,  and  the  very  day  the  big  run  on  the 
Knickerbocker  Bank  began. 

I  came  near  meeting  a  heavy  loss  two  days  be- 
fore leaving  the  city.  Somehow  I  got  sandwiched  in 
on  the  East  Side  above  the  Brooklyn  bridge  in  the 
congested  district  of  the  foreign  quarters  and  finally 
at  night-fall  drove  into  a  stable,  put  the  oxen  in  the 
stalls,  and,  as  usual,  the  dog  Jim  in  the  wagon.  The 
next  morning  Jim  was  gone.     The  stablemen  said 

—  117  — 


he  had  left  the  wagon  a  few  moments  after  I  had 
and  had  been  stolen.  The  police  accused  the  stable- 
men of  being  a  party  to  the  theft,  in  which  I  think 
they  were  right.  Anyway,  the  day  wore  off  and  no 
tidings.  Money  could  not  buy  that  dog.  He  was 
an  integral  part  of  the  expedition;  always  on  the 
alert;  always  watchful  of  the  wagon  during  my  ab- 
sence and  always  willing  to  mind  what  I  bid  him  to 
do.  He  had  had  more  adventures  than  any  other 
member  of  the  work;  first  he  had  been  tossed  over  a 
high  brush  by  the  ox  Dave;  then  shortly  after  pitch- 
ed headlong  over  a  barbed  wire  fence  by  an  irate 
cow;  then  came  the  fight  with  a  wolf;  following 
this  came  a  narrow  escape  from  the  rattle  snake  in 
the  road;  after  this  a  trolley  car  run  over  him  rolling 
him  over  and  over  again  until  he  came  out  as  dizzy 
as  a  drunken  man — I  thought  he  was  a  "goner"  that 
time  sure,  but  he  soon  straightened  up,  and  finally 
in  the  streets  of  Kansas  City  was  run  over  by  a 
heavy  truck  while  fighting  another  dog.  The  other 
dog  was  killed  outright,  while  Jim  came  near  having 
his  neck  broken,  lost  one  of  his  best  fighting  teeth 
and  had  several  others  broken.  I  sent  him  to  a 
veterinary  surgeon  and  curiously  enough  he  made  no 
protest  while  having  the  broken  teeth  repaired  and 
extracted.  He  could  eat  nothing  but  soup  and  milk 
for  several  days,  and  that  poured  down  him  as  he 
could  neither  lap  nor  swallow  liquids.  It  came  very 
near  being  "all  day"  with  Jim,  but  he  is  here  with  me 
all  right  and  seemingly  good  for  a  new  adventure. 

No  other  method  could  disclose  where  to  find  him 
than  to  offer  a  reward,  which  I  did  and  feel  sure  1 
paid  the  twenty  dollars  to  ©ne  of  the  fellow-parties 
to  the  theft  who  was  brazen  faced  enough  to  demand 
pay  for  keeping  him.  Then  was  when  I  got  up  and 
talked  pointedly,  and  was  glad  enough  to  get  out  of 
that  part  of  the  city. 

Between  Newark  and  Elizabeth  City,  New  Jersey, 
at  a  point  known  as  "Lyons  Farm,"  the  old  "Meeker 
Homestead"  stands,  built  in  the  year  1767.  Here  the 
"Meeker  Tribe,"  as  we  called  ourselves,  came  out  to 
greet  me  near  forty  strong,  as  shown  by  the  illus- 

^118  — 


—  119  — 


tration.  Except  in  Philadelphia,  I  did  not  receive 
much  recognition  between  Elizabeth  City  and 
Washington.  Wilmington  would  have  none  of  it, 
except  for  pay  and  so  I  passed  on,  but  at  Phila- 
delphia I  was  bid  to  go  on  Broad  street  under 
the  shadow  of  the  great  city  hall  where  great  crowds 
came  and  took  a  lot  of  my  literature  away  during 
the  four  days  I  tarried;  in  Baltimore  I  got  a  "cold 
shoulder,"  and  passed  through  the  city  without  halt- 
ing long.  In  parts  of  Maryland  I  found  many  lank 
oxen  with  long  horns  and  light  quarters,  the  drivers 
not  being  much  interested  in  the  outfit  except  to  re- 
mark, "Them's  mighty  fine  cattle,  stranger,  where 
do  you  come  from,"  and  like  passing  remarks. 

But  when  I  reached  Washington,  the  atmosphere, 
so  to  speak,  changed — a  little  bother  with  the  police 
a  few  days  but  soon  brushed  aside.  I  had  been  just 
twenty-two  months  to  a  day  in  reaching  Washington 
from  the  time  I  made  my  first  day's  drive  from  my 
home  at  Puyallup,  January  29th,  1906.  It  took  Presi- 
dent Roosevelt  to  extend  a  royal  welcome. 

"Well,  well,  well,  WELL,"  was  the  exclamation 
that  fell  from  his  lips  as  he  came  near  enough  the 
outfit  to  examine  it  critically,  which  he  did.  Sena- 
tor Piles  and  Representative  Cushman  of  the  Wash- 
ington State  Congressional  delegation  had  intro- 
duced me  to  the  President  in  the  cabinet  room. 
Mr.  Roosevelt  showed  a  lively  interest  in  the  work 
from  the  start  He  did  not  need  to  be  told  that  the 
Trail  was  a  battlefield,  or  that  the  Oregon  Pioneers 
who  moved  out  and  occupied  the  Oregon  country 
while  yet  in  dispute  between  Great  Britain  and  the 
United  States  were  heroes  who  fought  a  strenuous 
battle  as  "winners  of  the  farther  west,"  for  he  fairly 
snatched  the  words  from  my  lips  and  went  even 
farther  than  I  had  even  dreamed  of.  let  alone  having 
hoped  for,  in  invoking  government  aid  to  carry  on 
the  work. 

Addressing  Senator  Piles  the  President  said  with 
emphasis,  "I  am  in  favor  of  this  work  to  mark  this 
Trail  and  if  you  will  bring  before  Congress  a  meas- 

—  120  — 


ure  to  accomplish  it,  I  am  with  you,  and  will  give  it 
my  support  to  do  it  thoroughly." 

Mr.  Roosevelt  thought  the  suggestion  of  a  memo- 
rial highway  should  first  come  from  the  states 
through  which  the  Trail  runs;  anyway  it  would  be 
possible  to  get  Congressional  aid  to  mark  the  Trail, 
and  that  in  any  event,  ought  to  be  speedily  done. 

Apparently,  on  a  sudden  recollecting  other  en- 
gagements pressing,  the  President  asked,  "Where  is 
your  team?  I  want  to  see  it."  Upon  being  told  that 
it  was  near  by,  without  ceremony,  and  without  his 
hat  he  was  soon  alongside,  asking  questions  faster 
than  they  could  be  answered,  not  idle  questions,  but 
such  as  showed  his  intense  desire  to  get  real  infor- 
mation— bottom  facts — as  the  saying  goes. 

I  left  Washington  on  the  8th  of  January,  1908, 
and  shipped  the  outfit  over  the  Allegheny  Mountains 
to  McKeesport,  Pennsylvania,  having  been  in  Wash- 
ington, as  the  reader  will  note,  thirty-nine  days. 
From  McKeesport  I  drove  to  Pittsburg  and  there 
put  the  team  into  Winter  quarters  to  remain  until 
the  5th  of  March;  thence  shipped  bj'-  boat  on  the 
Ohio  River  to  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  stopping  in  that 
city  but  one  day,  and  from  there  shipping  by  rail 
to  St.  Louis,  Missouri.  At  Pittsburg  and  adjacent 
cities  I  was  received  cordially  and  encouraged  great- 
ly to  believe  the  movement  for  a  national  highway 
had  taken  a  deep  hold  in  the  minds  of  the  people. 
The  Pittsburg  automobile  club  issued  a  circular  let- 
ter to  all  the  automobile  clubs  of  Pennsylvania,  and 
likewise  to  the  congressional  delegation  of  Pennsyl- 
vania, urging  them  to  favor  not  only  the  bill  then 
pending  in  Congress,  appropriating  $50,000  for  mark- 
ing the  Oregon  Trail,  but  also  a  measure  looking 
to  the  joint  action  of  the  national  government  and 
the  states,  to  build  a  national  highway  over  the 
Oregon  Trail  as  a  memorial  road.  I  was  virtually 
given  the  freedom  of  the  city  of  Pittsburg,  and  sold 
my  literature  without  hindrance;  but  not  so  when 
I  came  to  Cincinnati.  The  chief  of  police  treated 
me  with  scant  courtesy,  but  the  automobile  clubs  of 
Cincinnati   took   action   at   once    similar   to   that   of 

—  121  — 


the  Pittsburg  club.  Again  when  I  arrived  in  St. 
Louis,  I  received  at  the  City  Hal  the  same  frigid 
reception  that  had  been  given  me  at  Cincinnati, 
although  strenuous  efforts  were  made  by  prominent 
citizens  to  bring  out  a  different  result.  However, 
the  Mayor  was  obdurate  and  so  after  tarrying  for  a 
few  days,  I  drove  out  of  the  city,  greatly  disappoint- 
ed at  the  results,  but  not  until  after  the  automobile 
club  and  the  Daughters  of  the  American  Revolution 
had  taken  formal  action  indorsing  the  work.  My 
greater  disappointment  was  that  here  I  had  anti- 
cipated a  warm  reception.  St.  Louis,  properly  speak- 
ing, had  been  the  head  center  of  the  movement  that 
finally  established  the  Oregon  Tratl.  Here  was 
where  Weythe,  Bonnyville  Whitman  and  others  of 
the  earlier  movements  out  on  the  trail  had  outfitted; 
but  there  is  now  a  commercial  generation,  many  of 
whom  that  care  but  little  about  the  subject.  Never- 
theless I  found  a  goodly  number  of  zealous  advo- 
cates of  the  cause  of  marking  the  trail. 

The  drive  from  St.  Louis  to  Jefferson  City,  the 
Capital  of  the  State  of  Missouri,  was  tedious  and 
without  results  other  than  reaching  the  point  where 
actual  driving  began  in  early  days. 

Governor  Folk  came  out  on  the  State  House  steps 
to  have  his  photograph  taken  and  otherwise  signified 
his  approval  of  the  work,  and  I  was  accorded  a  cor- 
dial hearing  by  the  citizens  of  that  city.  On  the 
fourth  of  April  I  arrived  at  Independence,  Missouri, 
which  is  generally  understood  to  be  the  eastern 
terminus  of  the  Trail. 

I  found,  however,  that  many  of  the  pioneers 
shipped  farther  up  the  Missouri,  some  driving  from 
Atchison,  some  from  Leavenworth,  others  from  St. 
Joseph  and  at  a  little  later  period,  multitudes  from 
Kainsville  (now  Council  Bluffs),  where  Whitman 
and  Parker  made  their  final  break  from  civilization 
and  boldly  turned  their  faces  westerly  for  the  un- 
known land  of  Oregon. 

A  peculiar  condition  of  affairs  existed  at  Inde- 
pendence. The  near-by  giant  city  of  Kansas  City 
had  long  ago  overshadowed  the  embryo  commercial 

—  122  — 


mart  of  the  early  thirties  and  had  taken  even  that 
early  trade  from  Independence.  However,  the  citi- 
zens of  Independence  manifested  an  interest  in  the 
work  and  took  measures  to  raise  a  fund  for  a  $5,000 
monument.  At  a  meeting  of  the  Commercial  Club 
it  was  resolved  to  raise  the  funds,  but  found  to  be 
"up-hill  work."  Wliether  they  will  succeed  is  pro- 
blematical. A  novel  scheme  had  been  adopted  to 
raise  funds.  A  local  author  proposed  to  write  a 
drama,  "The  Oregon  Trail,"  and  put  it  on  the  stage 
at  Independence  and  Kansas  City,  for  the  benefit  of 
the  Monument  fund.  If  he  can  succeed  in  carrying 
out  successfully  the  plot  as  outlined,  he  ought  to 
write  a  play  that  would  be  a  monument  to  the 
thought  as  well  as  to  provide  funds  for  a  monument 
to  the  Trail,  for  certainly  here  is  a  theme  that  would 
not  only  fire  the  imagination  of  an  audience  but  like- 
wise enlist  their  sympathies.  I  am  so  impressed 
with  the  importance  of  this  work,  that  I  am  tempted 
to  outline  the  theme  in  the  hope  if  this  attempt  does 
not  succeed,  that  others  may  be  prompted  to  un- 
dertake the   work. 

First,  the  visit  of  the  four  Flat  Head  Indians  in 
search  of  the  "white  man's  book  of  heaven,"  enter- 
tained in  St.  Louis  by  Gen.  William  Clark,  of  Lewis 
and  Clark  fame,  until  two  of  them  died;  then  the 
death  of  a  third  on  the  way  home;  the  historic 
speech  of  one,  telling  of  their  disappointment,  and 
final  return  home  of  the  single  survivor;  then  fol- 
lows the  two-thousand-mide  bridal  tour  of  Whitman 
and  Spaulding,  and  this  in  turn  by  the  historic 
movement  of  the  early  home  builders  to  the  Oregon 
country  with  its  grand  results;  the  fading  memory 
of  a  forgetful  generation  until  the  recollections  of 
the  grand  highway  is  recovered  in  a  blaze  of  glory, 
to  be  handed  down  to  succeeding  generations,  by  the 
homage  of  a  nation. 

At  Kansas  City,  Mo.,  the  thoughts  of  the  people 
had  been  turned  to  the  Santa  Fe  Trail  by  the  active 
campaign  in  the  border  state  of  Kansas  in  erecting 
markers  on  that  trail.  To  my  utter  surprise  it 
seemed  that  the  Oregon  Trail  had  almost  been  for- 

—  123  — 


gotten;  the  sentiment  and  thought  had  all  been  cen- 
tered on  the  Sante  Fe  Trail.  I  tarried  with  them 
exactly  one  month,  spoke  to  numerous  organized 
bodies,  and  came  away  with  the  feeling  the  seed  had 
been  planted  that  would  revive  the  memory  of  the 
Oregon  Trail  and  finally  result  in  a  monument  in  the 
greater  city.  In  the  lesser  Kansas  City,  Kansas,  I 
visited  all  the  public  schools,  spoke  to  the  eleven 
thousand  school  children  of  the  city  and  came  away 
with  the  satisfaction  of  having  secured  contribu- 
tions from  over  3,000  children  to  a  fund  for  erecting 
a  monument  in  that  city. 

To  further  interest  the  children  of  the  state  of 
Kansas,  I  placed  $25.00  in  the  hands  of  their  State 
Superintendent  of  Schools,  to  be  offered  as  a  prize 
for  the  best  essay  on  the  Oregon  Trail.  This  con- 
test has  been  determined  during  the  calendar  year  of 
1908  and  the  award  made. 

All  existing  maps  in  the  State  of  Kansas  ignore 
the  Oregon  Trail.  The  "Sante  Fe  Trail"  is  known; 
there  is  a  "Fremont  Trail,"  a  "California  Trail,"  a 
"Mormon  Trail,"  but  not  one  mile  of  an  "Oregon 
Trail,"  although  this  great  historic  ancient  trail 
traversed  the  state  for  fully  two  hundred  miles. 
This  incident  shows  how  extremely  important  that 
early  action  to  mark  the  Oregon  Trail  should  be 
taken  before  it  is  too  late. 

The  Santa  Fe  and  Oregon  Trails  from  Independ- 
ence and  Kansas  City  are  identical  out  to  the  town 
of  Gardner,  Kansas,  forty  miles  or  therabouts. 
Here  the  Santa  Fe  Trail  bore  on  to  the  west  and 
finally  southwest,  while  the  Oregon  Trail  bore  stead- 
ily on  to  the  northwest  and  encountered  the  Platte 
Valley  below  Grand  Island  in  what  is  now  Nebras- 
ka. At  the  "forks  of  the  road,"  the  historian  Chitten- 
den says,  "a  simple  signboard  was  seen  which  car- 
ried the  words  'Road  to  Oregon,'  thus  pointing  the 
way,  for  two  thousand  miles."  No  such  signboard 
ever  before  pointed  the  road  for  so  long  a  distance 
and  probably  another  such  never  will.  I  determined 
to  make  an  effort  to  at  least  recover  the  spot  where 
this  historic  sign  once  stood,  and  if  possible  plant 

—  124  — 


2  marker  there.  Kind  friends  in  Kansas  City,  one 
of  whom  I  had  not  met  for  sixty  years,  took  me  in 
their  automobile  to  Gardner,  Kansas,  where,  after 
a  search  of  two  hours,  the  two  survivors  were  found 
who  were  able  to  point  out  the  spot — Mr.  V.  R.  Eli 
and  William  J.  Ott,  whose  residence  in  the  near  vi- 
cinity dated  back  nearly  fifty  years;  aged,  respective- 
ly, n  and  82  years.  The  point  is  at  the  intersection 
of  Washington  and  Central  Street  in  the  town  of 
Gardner,  Kansas.  In  this  little  town  of  a  few  hun- 
dred inhabitants  stands  a  monument  for  the  Santa 
Fe  Trail,  a  credit  to  the  sentimental  feelings  of  the 
community,  but,  having  expended  their  energies  on 
that  work,  it  was  impossible  to  get  them  to  under- 
take to  erect  another,  although  I  returned  a  few  days 
later,  spoke  to  a  meeting  of  the  town  council  and 
citizens  and  offered  to  secure  $250  elsewhere  if  the 
town  would  undertake  to  raise  a  like  sum. 

This  last  trip  cost  me  over  a  hundred  dollars.  As  I 
left  the  train  at  Kansas  City  on  my  return,  my 
pocket  was  "picked"  and  all  the  money  I  had.  save 
a  few  dollars,  was  gone.  This  is  the  first  time  in  my 
life  I  have  lost  money  in  that  way,  and  I  want  it  to 
be  the  last. 

I  planned  to  drive  up  the  Missouri  and  investigate 
the  remaining  five  prongs  of  The  Trail,  Leaven- 
worth, Atchison,  St.  Joseph  and  Kanesville,  the 
other.  Independence  and  Westpoint  (now  Kansas 
City),  considered  as  one,  but  first  drove  to  Topeka. 
the  capital  city  of  the  State  of  Kansas,  where  I  ar- 
rived May  11th  (1908).  The  "Trail"  crosses  the  Kan- 
sas River  under  the  very  shadow  of  the  State  House 
— not  three  blocks  away — yet  only  a  few  knew  of  its 
existence  The  state  had  appropriated  $1,000  to  mark 
the  Santa  Fe  Trail,  and  the  Daughters  of  the  Revo- 
lution had  coducted  a  campaign  of  supplementing 
this  fund  and  had  actually  procured  the  erection  of 
96  markers.  While  I  received  a  respectful  hearing 
by  these  ladies,  yet  they  shrank  from  undertaking 
new  work  at  the  present  time.  The  same  conditions 
controlled  at  Leavenworth  and  likewise  at  Atchison, 
and  hence,  I  did  not  tarry  long  at  either  place,  but 

—126- 


at  all  three,  Topeka,  Leavenworth  and  Atchison,  a 
lively  interest  was  manifested,  as  well  as  at  Law- 
rence, and  I  am  led  to  feel  the  people  do  now  know 
there  is  an  Oregon  Trail.  All  the  papers  did  splendid 
work  and  have  carried  on  the  work  in  a  way  that 
will  leave  a  lasting  impression. 

On  the  23rd  of  May  the  team  arrived  at  St.  Jo- 
seph, Missouri.  At  this  point  many  pioneers  had 
outfitted  in  early  days  and  the  sentiment  was  in 
hearty  accord  with  the  work,  yet  plainly  there  would 
be  a  hard  "tug"  to  get  the  people  together  on  a  plan 
to  erect  a  monument.  "Times"  were  "very  tight"  to 
undertake  such  a  work,  came  the  response  from  so 
many  that  no  organized  effort  was  made.  By  this 
time  the  fact  became  known  that  the  committee  in 
Congress  having  charge  of  the  bill  appropriating 
$50,000  to  mark  the  Trail,  had  taken  action  and 
had  made  a  favorable  report,  and  which  is  univer- 
sally held  to  be  almost  equivalent  to  the  passage  of 
the  bill. 

So,  all  things  considered,  the  conclusion  was 
reached  to  suspend  operation,  ship  the  team  home 
and  for  the  time  being,  take  a  rest  from  the  work. 
I  had  been  out  from  home  twenty-eight  months, 
lacking  but  five  days,  hence  it  is  small  wonder  if 
I  should  conclude  to  listen  to  the  inner  longings  to 
get  back  to  the  home  and  home  life.  Put  yourself 
in  my  place,  reader,  and  see  what  you  think  you 
would  have  done.  True,  the  Trail  was  not  yet  fully 
nor  properly  marked,  yet  something  had  been  ac- 
complished and  with  this,  the  thought,  a  good  deal 
more  might  be  expected  from  the  seed  planted. 

May  26th,  I  shipped  the  outfit  to  Portland,  Oregon, 
where  I  arrived  on  the  6th  day  of  June  (1908),  and 
went  into  camp  on  the  same  grounds  I  had  camped 
on  in  March  (1906)  on  my  outward  trip. 

Words  cannot  express  my  deep  feelings  of  grati- 
tude for  the  royal,  cordial  reception  given  me  by  the 
citizens  of  Portland,  from  the  Mayor  down  to  the 
humblest  citizen,  and  for  the  joyous  reunion  with 
the  2,000  pioneers  who  had  just  assembled  for  their 
annual  meeting. 

—127— 


The  drive  from  Portland  to  Seattle  is  one  long  to 
be  remembered,  and  while  occupying  a  goodly  num- 
ber of  days,  yet  not  one  moment  of  tedious  time 
hung  heavy  on  my  shoulders,  and  on  the  18th  day  of 
July,  I  drove  into  the  City  of  Seattle  and  the  long 
"trek"  was  ended. 

It  would  be  unbecoming  in  me  to  assume  in  a  vain- 
glorious mood  that  the  manifestation  of  cordiality, 
and  I  may  say  joy  in  the  hearts  of  many  at  my 
homecoming,  was  wholly  due  to  the  real  merit  of  my 
work,  knowing  as  I  do  that  so  many  have  magnified 
the  difficulties  of  the  trip,  yet  it  would  be  less  than 
human  did  I  not  feel,  and  unjust  did  I  not  express 
the  pride,  which  I  hope  is  pardonable,  and  openly 
acknowledge  it,  for  the  kindly  words  and  generous 
actions  of  my  friends  and  neighbors,  and  to  all  such 
I  extend  my  kindest  and  heartiest  thanks. 

SUMMARY. 

Now  that  the  trip  has  been  made,  and  an  account 
of  stock,  so  to  speak,  taken,  I  have  become  surprised 
the  work  was  undertaken.  Not  that  I  regret  the  act 
any  more  than  I  regret  the  first  act  of  crossing  the 
Plains  in  1852,  which  to  me  now  appears  to  be  as 
incomprehensible  as  the  later  act.  If  one  questions 
the  motive  prompting  and  governing  the  movernents 
of  the  early  pioneers,  scarcely  two  of  the  survivors 
will  tell  the  same  story,  or  give  the  same  reason. 
This  wonderful  movement  was  brought  vividly  home 
to  my  mind  recently  while  traversing  the  great  fer- 
tile plains  of  the  Middle  West,  where  most  of  the 
emigrants  came  from.  Here  was  a  vast  expanse  of 
unoccupied  fertile  land,  beautiful  as  ever  mortal  man 
looked  upon;  great  rivers  traversed  this  belt,  to  carry 
the  surplus  crops  to  distant  markets;  smaller  streams 
ramify  all  over  the  region  to  multiply  the  opportuni- 
ties for  choice  locations  to  one's  heart's  content,  and 
yet  these  Oregon  emigrants  passed  all  these  opportu- 
nities and  boldly  struck  out  on  the  2,000-mile  stretch 
of  what  was  then  known  as  the  Great  American  Des- 
ert, and  braved  the  dangers  of  Indian  warfare,  of 
starvation,  of  sickness — in  a  word,  of  untold  dan- 

—128- 


gers, — to  reach  the  almost  totally  unknown  Oregon 
Country.  Why  did  they  do  it?  Can  any  man  tell? 
I  have  been  asked  thousands  of  times  while  on  this 
later  trip  what  prompted  me  to  make  it?  1  can 
not  answer  that  question  satisfactorily  to  myself 
and  have  come  to  answering  the  question  by  asking 
another,  or  more  accurately  speaking,  several,  "Why 
do  you  decorate  a  grave?"  or  "Why  do  we  as  a  peo- 
ple mark  our  battlefields?"  or  "Why  do  we  erect 
monuments  to  the  heoric  dead  of  war?"  It  is  the 
same  sentiment,  for  instance,  that  prompted  marking 
the  Gettysburg  battlefield. 

Yes,  as  I  recently  returned  home  over  the  Oregon 
Short  Line  railroad  that  in  many  places  crossed  the 
old  Trail,  with  Dave  and  Dandy  quietly  chewing 
their  cud  in  the  car,  and  myself  supplied  with  all  the 
luxuries  of  a  great  palatial  overland  train,  and  I 
began  vividly  to  realize  the  wide  expanse  of  country 
covered,  and  passed  first  one  and  then  another  of  the 
camping  places,  I  am  led  to  wonder,  if,  after  all,  I 
could  have  seen  the  Trail  stretched  out,  as  like  a 
panorama,  as  seen  from  the  car  window,  would  I 
have  undertaken  the  work?  I  sometimes  think  not. 
We  all  of  us  at  times  undertake  things  that  look 
bigger  after  completion,  than  in  our  vision  ahead  of 
us,  or  in  other  words,  go  into  ventures  without  fully 
counting  the  cost.  Perhaps,  to  an  extent  this  was 
the  case  in  this  venture;  the  work  did  look  larger 
from  the  car  window  than  from  the  camp.  Xever- 
theless.  I  have  no  regrets  to  express  nor  exultations 
to  proclaim.  In  one  sense  the  expedition  has  been 
a  failure,  in  that  as  yet  the  Trail  is  not  sufficiently 
marked  for  all  time  and  for  all  generations  to  come. 
We  have  made  a  beginning,  and  let  us  hope  the  end 
sought  will  in  the  near  future  become  an  accom- 
plished fact,  and  not  forget  the  splendid  response 
from  so  many  communities  on  the  way  in  this,  the 
beginning.  And  let  the  reader,  too,  remember  he 
has  an  interest  in  this  work,  a  duty  to  perform  to  aid 
in  building  up  American  citizenship,  for  "monument- 
ing"  the  Oregon  Trail  means  more  than  the  mere 
preservation  in   memory  of   that   great   highway;   it 

—129— 


means  the  building  up  of  loyalty,  patriotism — of 
placing  the  American  thought  upon  a  higher  plane, 
as  well  as  of  teaching  history  in  a  form  never  to  be 
forgotten  and  always  in  view  as  an  object  lesson. 

The  financing  of  the  expedition  became  at  once  a 
most  difficult  problem.  A  latent  feeling  existed  fa- 
voring the  work,  but  how  to  utilize  it — concen- 
trate it  upon  a  plan  that  would  succeed — confronted 
the  friends  of  the  enterprise.  Elsewhere,  the  reader 
will  find  the  reason  given  why  the  ox  team  was 
chosen  and  the  drive  over  the  old  Trail  undertaken. 
But  there  did  not  exist  a  belief  in  the  minds  of 
many  that  the  "plan  would  work,"  and  so  it  came 
about  that  almost  every  one  refused  to  contribute, 
and  many  tried  to  discourage  the  effort,  sincerely 
believing  that  it  would  result  in  failure. 

I  have  elsewhere  acknowledged  the  liberality  of 
H.  C.  Davis  of  Claquato,  Washington,  sending  his 
check  for  $50.00  with  which  to  purchase  an  ox.  Irv- 
ing Alvord  of  Kent,  Washington,  contributed  $25.00 
for  the  purchase  of  a  cow.  Ladd  of  Portland  gave  a 
check  for  $100.00  at  the  instance  of  George  H.  Hines, 
who  also  secured  a  like  sum  from  others — $200.00  in 
all.  Then  when  I  lost  the  ox  Twist  and  telegraphed 
to  Henry  Hewitt  of  Tacoma  to  send  me  two  hun- 
dred dollars,  the  response  came  the  next  day  to  the 
bank  of  Gothenburg,  Nebraska,  to  pay  me  that 
amount.  But,  notwithstanding  the  utmost  effort  and 
most  rigid  economy,  there  did  seem  at  times  that  an 
impending  financial  failure  was  just  ahead.  In  the 
midst  of  the  enthusiasm  manifested,  I  felt  the  need 
to  put  on  a  bold  front  and  refuse  contributions  for 
financing  the  expedition,  knowing  full  well  that  the 
cry  of  "graft"  would  be  raised  and  that  contribu- 
tions to  local  committees  for  monuments  would  be 
lessened,  if  not  stopped  altogether.  The  outlay  had 
reached  the  $1,400.00  mark  when  I  had  my  first 
1,000  copies  of  the  "Ox  Team"  printed.  Would  the 
book  sell,  I  queried?  I  had  written  it  in  camp,  along 
the  roadside;  in  the  wagon — any  place  and  at  any 
time  I  could  snatch  an  opportunity  or  a  moment 
from    other    pressing   work.     These    were    days    of 

—130— 


anxieties.  Knowing  full  well  the  imperfections  of 
the  work,  small  wonder  if  I  did,  in  a  fipurative  sense, 
put  out  the  book  "with  fear  and  trembling," — an  edi- 
tion of  1,000  copies.  The  response  came  quick,  for 
the  book  sold  and  the  expedition  was  saved  from 
failure  for  lack  of  funds.  Two  thousand  more  were 
printed,  and  while  these  were  selling,  my  cuts,  plates 
and  a  part  of  a  third  reprint  were  all  destroyed  by 
fire  in  Chicago,  and  I  had  to  begin  at  the  bottom 
New  plates  and  new  cuts  were  ordered,  and  this  time 
6,000  copies  were  printed,  and  Inter  another  reprint 
of  10.000  copies  (19,000  in  all),  with  less  than  1.00 
copies   left   unsold   two   months   after    arrival    home. 

Then  followed  an  edition  of  5,000  copies  in  1909 — 
all  sold — and  now  followed  by  the  present  reprint 
of  10,000—34,000  in  all. 

So  the  book  saved  the  day.  Nevertheless,  there 
were  times — until  I  reached  Philadelphia — when  the 
question  of  where  the  next  dollars  of  expense  money 
would  come  from  before  an  imperative  demand  came 
for  it  bore  heavily  on  my  mind.  Two  months  tied 
up  in  Indianapolis  during  the  winter  came  near  de- 
ciding the  question  adversely;  then  later,  being  shut 
out  from  selling  at  BufTnlo.  Albany  and  some  other 
places  and  finally  the  tie-up  in  New  York,  related 
elsewhere,  nearly  "broke  the  bank.''  New  York  did 
not  yield  a  rich  harvest  for  selling  as  I  had  hoped 
for,  as  the  crowds  were  too  great  to  admit  of  my 
remaining  long  in  one  place,  but  when  Philadelphia 
was  reached  and  I  was  assigned  a  place  on  Broad 
street  near  the  City  Hall,  the  crowds  came,  the  sales 
ran  up  to  $247.00  in  one  day  and  $600.00  for  the  four 
days,  the  financial  (juestion  was  settled,  and  there 
were  no  more  anxious  moments  about  where  the  next 
dollar  was  to  come  from,  although  the  aggregate  ex- 
penses of  the  expedition  had  reached  the  sum  of 
nearly   eight    thousand   dollars. 

"All  is  well  that  ends  well,"  as  the  old  saying  goes, 
and  so  I  am  rejoiced  to  be  able  to  report  so  favor- 
able a  termination  of  the  financial  part  of  the  ex- 
pedition. 

—131— 


not  to  be  thought  of;  nobody  ever  heard  of  a  log- 
rolling or  barn-raising  without  whiskey.  And  so  I 
will  say  to  the  zealous  temperance  reformers,  be  of 
good  cheer,  for  the  world  has  moved  in  these  seven- 
ty-eight years.  Be  it  said,  though,  to  the  everlasting 
honor  of  my  father,  that  he  set  his  head  firmly 
against  the  practice,  and  said  his  grain  should  rot 
in  the  field  before  he  would  supply  whiskey  to  his 
harvest  hands,  and  I  have  no  recollections  of  ever 
but  once  tasting  any  alcoholic  liquors  in  my  boy- 
hood days. 

I  did,  however,  learn  to  smoke  when  very  young. 
It  came  about  in  this  way:  My  mother  always 
smoked,  as  long  as  I  can  remember.  Women  those 
days  smoked  as  well  as  men,  and  nothing  was 
thought  of  it. 

Well,  that  was  before  the  time  of  matches,  or 
leastwise,  it  was  a  time  when  it  was  thought  neces- 
sary to  economize  in  their  use,  and  mother,  Vfho  was 
a  corpulent  woman,  would  send  me  to  put  a  coal 
in  her  pipe,  and  so  I  would  take  a  whiff  or  two,  just 
to  get  it  started,  you  know,  which,  however,  soon  de- 
veloped into  the  habit  of  lingering  to  keep  it  going. 
But  let  me  be  just  to  myself, — for  more  than  twenty- 
five  years  ago  I  threw  away  my  pipe  and  have  never 
smoked  since,  and  never  will,  and  now  to  those 
smokers  who  say  they  "can't  quit"  I  want  to  call 
their  attention  to  one  case  of  a  man  who  did. 

My  next  recollection  of  school-days  was  after  fath- 
er had  moved  to  Lockland,  Ohio,  then  ten  miles 
north  of  Cincinnati,  now,  I  presume,  a  suburb  of  that 
great  city.  I  played  "hookey"  instead  of  going  to 
school,  but  one  day  while  under  the  canal  bridge 
the  noise  of  passing  teams  so  frightened  me  that  I 
ran  home  and  betrayed  myself.  Did  my  mother 
whip  me?  Why,  God  bless  her  dear  old  soul,  no. 
Whipping  of  children,  though,  both  at  home  and  in 
the  school-room,  was  then  about  as  common  _  as 
eating  one's  breakfast;  but  my  parents  did  not  think 
it  was  necessary  to  rule  by  the  rod,  though  then 
their  family  government  was  exceptional.     And   so 

—134— 


we  see  now  a  diflferent  rule  prevailing,  and  see  that 
the  world  does  move  and  is  getting  better. 

After  my  father's  removal  to  Indiana  times  were 
"hard,"  as  the  common  expression  goes,  and  all 
members  of  the  household  for  a  season  were  called 
upon  to  contribute  their  mite.  I  drove  four  yoke 
of  oxen  for  twenty-five  cents  a  day,  and  a  part  of 
that  time  boarded  at  home  at  that.  This  was  (jn  the 
Wabash  where  oak  grubs  grew,  as  father  often 
said,  "as  thick  as  hair  on  a  dog's  back,"  but  nut  su 
thick  as  that.  But  we  used  to  force  the  big  plow- 
through  and  cut  grubs  with  the  plow  shear,  as  big 
as  my  wrist;  and  when  we  saw  a  patch  of  them 
ahead,  then  was  when  I  learned  how  to  halloo  and 
rave  at  the  poor  oxen  and  inconsiderately  whip  them 
but  father  wouldn't  let  me  swear  at  them.  Let  me 
say  parenthetically  that  I  have  long  since  discon- 
tinued such  a  foolish  practice,  and  that  I  now  talk 
to  my  oxen  in  a  conversational  tone  of  voice  and 
use  the  whip  sparingly.  When  father  moved  to 
Indianapolis,  I  think  in  1841,  "times"  seemed  harder 
than  ever,  and  I  was  put  to  work  wherever  an 
opportunity  for  employment  offered,  and  encour- 
aged by  my  mother  to  seek  odd  jobs  and  keep  the 
money  myself,  she,  however,  becoming  my  banker; 
and  in  three  years  I  had  actually  accumulated  ^37. 
My!  but  what  a  treasure  that  was  to  me,  and  what  a 
bond  of  confidence  between  my  mother  and  myself, 
for  no  one  else,  as  I  thought,  knew  about  my  treas- 
ure. I  found  out  afterwards,  though,  that  father 
knew  about  it  all  the  time. 

My  ambition  was  to  get  some  land.  I  had  heard 
there  was  a  forty-acre  tract  in  Hendrix  county  (In- 
diana) yet  to  be  entered  at  $1.25  per  acre,  and  as 
soon  as  I  could  get  $50.00  together  I  meant  to  hunt 
up  that  land  and  secure  it.  I  used  to  dream  about 
that  land  day  times  as  well  as  at  night.  I  sawed 
wood  and  cut  each  stick  twice  for  twenty-five  cents 
a  cord,  and  enjoyed  the  experience,  for  at  night  I 
could  add  to  my  treasure.  It  was  because  my  mind 
did  not  run  on  school  work  and  because  of  my 
restless   disposition   that   my  father  allowed   me   to 

—135— 


do  this  instead  of  compelling  me  to  attend  school, 

and  which  cut  down  my  real  schoolboy  days  to  less 
than  six  months.  It  was,  to  say  the  least,  a  danger- 
ous experiment  and  one  which  only  a  mother  (who 
knows  her  child  better  than  all  others)  dare  take, 
and  I  will  not  by  any  means  advise  other  mothers  to 
adopt  such  a  course. 

Then  when  did  you  get  your  education?  the  casual 
reader  may  ask.  I  will  tell  you  a  story.  When  in 
1870  I  wrote  my  first  book  (long  since  out  of  print), 
•'Washington  Territory  West  of  the  Cascade  Moun- 
tains," and  submitted  the  work  to  the  Eastern  pub- 
lic, a  copy  fell  into  the  hands  of  Jay  Cook,  who  then 
had  six  power  presses  running  advertising  the 
Northern  Pacific  railroad,  and  he  at  once  took  up  my 
whole  edition.  Mr.  Cook,  whom  I  met,  closely  ques- 
tioned me  as  to  where  I  was  educated.  After  hav- 
ing answered  his  many  queries  about  my  life  on  the 
frontier  he  would  not  listen  to  my  disclaimer  that  I 
was  not  an  educated  man,  referring  to  the  work  in 
his  hand.  The  fact  then  dawned  on  me  that  it  was 
the  reading  of  the  then  current  literature  of  the  day 
that  had  taught  me.  I  answered  that  the  New  York 
Tribune  had  educated  me,  as  I  had  then  been  a  close 
reader  of  that  paper  for  eighteen  years,  and  it  was 
there  I  got  my  pure  English  diction,  if  I  possessed 
it.  We  received  mails  only  twice  a  month  for  a  long 
time,  and  sometimes  only  once  a  month,  and  it  is 
needless  to  say  that  all  the  matter  in  the  paper  was 
read  and  much  of  it  re-read  and  studied  in  the  cabin 
and  practiced  in  the  field.  However,  I  do  not  set 
my  face  against  school  training,  but  can  better  ex- 
press my  meaning  by  the  quaint  saying  that  "too 
much  of  a  good  thing  is  more  than  enough,"  a  phrase 
in  a  way  senseless,  which  yet  conveys  a  deeper  mean- 
ing than  the  literal  words  express.  The  context  will 
show  the  lack  of  a  common  school  education,  after 
all,  was  not  entirely  for  want  of  an  opportunity,  but 
from  my  aversion  to  confinement  and  preference  for 
work  to  study. 

In  those  days  apprenticeship  was  quite  common, 
and  it  was  not  thought  to  be  a  disgrace  for  a  child 

—136— 


to  be  "bound  out"  until  he  was  twenty-one,  the  more 
especially  if  this  involved  learning  a  trade.  Father 
took  a  notion  he  would  "bind  me  out"  to  a  Mr.  Ath- 
ens, the  mill  owner  at  Lockland,  who  was  childless, 
and  took  me  with  him  one  day  to  talk  it  over. 
Finally,  when  asked  how  I  would  like  the  change, 
I  promptly  replied  that  it  would  be  all  right  if  Mrs. 
Arthens  would  "do  up  my  sore  toes,"  whereupon 
there  was  such  an  outburst  of  merriment  that  I  al- 
ways remembered  it.  We  must  remember  that  boys 
in  those  days  did  not  wear  shoes  in  summer  and  quite 
often  not  in  winter  either.  But  mollier  put  a  quietus 
on  the  whole  business  and  said  the  family  must  not 
be  divided,  and  it  was  not,  and  in  that  she  was  right. 
Give  me  the  humble  home  for  a  child,  that  is  a 
home  in  fact,  ratiier  tlian  the  grandest  palace  where 
home  life  is  but  a  sham. 

I  come  now  to  an  important  event  of  my  life, 
when  father  moved  from  Lockland,  Ohio,  to  near 
Covington.  Indiana.  I  was  not  yet  seven  years  old, 
but  walked  all  the  way  behind  the  wagon  and  be- 
gan building  "castles  in  the  air,"  which  is  the  first 
(but  by  no  means  the  last)  that  I  remember.  We 
were  going  out  to  Indiana  to  be  farmers,  and  it  was 
here,  near  the  banks  of  the  Wabash,  that  I  learned 
the  art  of  driving  four  yoke  of  oxen  to  a  breaking 
plow,  without  swearing. 

That  reminds  me  of  an  after-experience,  the  sum- 
mer I  was  nineteen.  Uncle  John  Kinworthy  (good 
old  soul  he  was),  an  ardent  Quaker,  who  lived  a  mile 
or  so  out  from  Bridgeport.  Indiana,  asked  me  one 
day  while  I  was  passing  his  place  with  three  yoke 
of  oxen  to  haul  a  heavy  cider  press  beam  in  place. 
This  led  the  oxen  through  the  front  door  yard  and 
in  full  sight  and  hearing  of  three  buxom  Quaker 
girls,  who  either  stood  in  the  door  or  poked  their 
heads  out  of  the  window,  in  company  with  their 
good  mother.  Go  through  the  front  yard  past  those 
girls  the  cattle  would  not,  and  kept  doubling  back, 
first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other.  Uncle  John- 
ny, noticing  I  did  not  swear  at  the  cattle,  and  attrib- 
uting the  absence  of  oaths  to  the  presence  of  ladies, 

—137— 


or  maybe,  like  a  good  many  others,  he  thought  oxen 
could  not  be  driven  without  swearing  at  them,  sought 
an  opportunity,  when  the  mistress  of  the  house 
could  not  hear  him,  and  said  in  a  low  tone,  "if  thee 
can  do  any  better,  thee  had  better  let  out  the  word  " 
Poor,  good  old  sou!,  he  doubtless  justified  himself  in 
his  own  mind  that  it  was  no  more  sin  to  swear  all 
the  time  than  part  of  the  time;  and  why  is  it?  T 
leave  the  answer  to  that  person,  if  he  can  be  found, 
that   never  swears. 

Yes,  I  say  again,  give  me  the  humble  home  for  a 
child,  that  is  a  home  in  fact,  rather  than  the  grand- 
est palace  where  home  life  is  but  a  sham.  And 
right  here  is  where  this  generation  has  a  grave  pro- 
blem to  solve,  if  it's  not  the  gravest  of  the  age,  the 
severance  of  child  life  from  the  real  home  and  the 
real  home  influences,  by  the  factory  child  labor,  the 
boarding  schools,  the  rush  for  city  life,  and  so  many 
others  of  like  influences  at  work,  that  one  can  only 
take    time    to   mention    examples. 

And  now  the  reader  will  ask.  What  do  you  mean 
by  the  home  life,  and  to  answer  that  I  will  relate 
some  features  of  my  early  home  life,  though  by  no 
means  would  say  that  I  would  want  to  return  to  all 
the   ways  of  "ye   olden  times  " 

My  mother  always  expected  each  child  to  have  a 
duty  to  perform,  as  well  as  lime  to  play.  Light  la- 
bor, to  be  sure,  but  labor;  something  of  service.  Our 
diet  was  so  simple,  the  mere  mention  of  it  may 
create  a  smile  with  the  casual  reader.  The  mush 
pot  was  a  great  factor  in  our  home  life;  a  great 
lieavy  iron  pot  that  hung  on  the  crane  in  the  chim- 
ney corner  where  the  mush  would  slowly  bubble 
and  splutter  over  or  near  a  bed  of  oak  coals  for  half 
the  afternoon.  And  such  mush,  always  made  from 
yellow  corn  meal  and  cooked  three  hours  or  more. 
This,  eaten  with  plenty  of  fresh,  rich  milk,  com- 
prised the  supper  for  the  children.  Tea?  Not  to  be 
thought  of.  Sugar?  It  was  too  expensive— cost 
fifteen  to  eighteen  cents  a  pound,  and  at  a  time  it 
took  a  week's  labor  to  earn  as  much  as  a  day's  labor 
now.      Cheap    molases,    sometimes,    but    not    often. 

—138- 


Meat,  not  more  than  once  a  day,  but  eggs  in  abund- 
ance. Everything  father  had  to  sell  was  low-priced, 
while  everything  mother  must  buy  at  the  store  was 
high.  Only  to  think  of  it,  you  who  complain  of  the 
hard  lot  of  the  workers  of  this  generation;  wheat 
twenty-five  cents  a  bushel,  corn  fifteen  cents,  pork 
two  and  two  and  a  half  cents  a  pound,  with  bacon 
sometimes  used  as  fuel  by  the  reckless,  racing  steam- 
boat captains  of  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi.  But  when 
we  got  onto  the  farm  with  abundance  of  fruit  and 
vegetables,  with  plenty  of  pumpkin  pics  and  apple 
dumplings,  our  cup  of  joy  was  full,  and  we  vvere  the 
happiest  mortals  on  earth.  As  I  have  said,  4:00 
o'clock  scarcely  ever  found  mother  in  bed,  and 
until  within  very  recent  years  I  can  say  that  5:00 
o'clock  almost  invariably  finds  me  up.  Habit,  do 
you  sav?  No,  not  wholly,  though  that  may  have 
something  to  do  with  it,  but  I  get  up  early  because 
T  want  to,  and  because  I  have  something  to  do. 

When   I   was  born,  thirty   miles   of  railroad  com- 
prised the  whole  mileage  of  the  United  States,  and 
this    only    a    tramway.      Now,    how    many    hundred 
thousand  miles  I  know  not,  but  many  miles  over  the 
two  hundred   thousand  mark.     When   I   crossed   the 
great  states  of  Illinois  and  Iowa  on  my  way  to  Ore- 
gon in  1852  not  a  mile  of  railroad  was  seen  in  either 
state.      Only    four    years   before,    the    first   line    was 
built   in   Indiana,   really   a    tramway,  from   Madison, 
on  the  Ohio  river,  to  Indianapolis.     What  a  furore 
the  building  of  that  railroad  created!     Earnest,  hon- 
est  men   opposed  the  building  just   as   sincerely  as 
men  now  advocate  public  ownership;  both  proposi- 
tions  fallacious,    the   one    long   since    exploded,   the 
other  in  due  time,  as  sure  to  die  out  as  the  first.    My 
father  was   a  strong  advocate  of  the  railroads,  but 
I  caught  the  arguments  on  the  other  side  advocated 
with  such  vehemence  as  to  have  the  sound  of  an- 
ger.    What  will   our  farmers  do  with   their  hay   if 
all  the  teams  that  are  hauling  freight  to  the  Ohio 
river   are   thrown   out   of   employment?     What  will 
the  tavern  keepers   do?     What  will  become  of  the 
wagons?    A  hundred  such  queries  would  be  asked  by 

—139— 


the  opponents  of  the  railroad  and,  to  themselves, 
triumphantly  answered  that  the  country  would  be 
ruined  if  railroads  were  built.  Nevertheless,  In- 
dianapolis has  grown  from  ten  thousand  to  near 
two  hundred  thousand,  notwithstanding  the  city  en- 
joyed the  unusual  distinction  of  being  the  first  terni- 
inal  city  in  the  state  of  Indiana.  I  remember  it 
was  the  boast  of  the  railroad  magnates  of  that  day 
that  they  would  soon  increase  the  speed  of  their 
trains  to  fourteen  miles  an  hour, — this  when  they 
were  running  twelve. 

In  the  year  1845  a  letter  came  from  Grandfather 
Baker  to  my  mother  that  he  would  give  her  a  thou- 
sand dollars  with  which  to  buy  a  farm.  The  burn- 
ifig  question  with  my  father  and  mother  was  how 
to  get  that  money  out  from  Ohio  to  Indiana.  They 
actually  went  in  a  covered  wagon  to  Ohio  for  it  and 
hauled  it  home,  all  silver,  in  a  box.  This  silver  was 
nearly  all  foreign  coin.  Prior  to  that  time,  but  a 
few  million  dollars  had  been  coined  by  the  United 
States  government.  Grandfather  Baker  had  accum- 
ulated this  money  by  marketing  small  things  in  Cin- 
cinnati, twenty-five  miles  distant.  I  have  heard  my 
mother  tell  of  going  to  market  on  horseback  with 
grandfather  many  times,  carrying  eggs,  butter  and 
even  live  chickens  on  the  horse  she  rode.  Grand- 
father would  not  go  in  debt,  and  so  he  lived  on  his 
farm  a  long  time  without  a  wagon,  but  finally  be- 
came wealthy,  and  was  reputed  to  have  a  "barrel  of 
money"  (silver,  of  course),  out  of  which  store  the 
thousand  dolars  mentioned  came.  It  took  nearly  a 
whole  day  to  count  this  thousand  dollars,  as  there 
seemed  to  be  nearly  every  nation's  coin  on  earth  rep- 
resented, and  the  "tables"  (of  value)  had  to  be  con- 
sulted, the  particular  coins  counted,  and  their  aggre- 
gate value  computed. 

It  was  this  money  that  bought  the  farm  five  miles 
southwest  of  Indianapolis,  where  I  received  my  first 
real  farm  training.  Father  had  advanced  ideas  about 
farming,  though  a  miller  by  trade,  and  early  taught 
me  some  valuable  lessons  I  never  forgot.  We  (I  say 
"we"  advisedly,  as  father  continued  to  work  m  the 

—140— 


mill  and  left  me  in  charge  of  the  farm)  soon  brought 
up  the  rundown  farm  to  produce  twenty-three  bush- 
els of  wheat  per  acre  instead  of  ten,  by  the  rotation 
of  corn,  and  clover  and  then  wheat.  But  there  was 
no  money  in  farming  at  the  then  prevailing  prices, 
and  the  land,  for  which  father  paid  ten  dollars  an 
acre,  would  not  yield  a  rental  equal  to  the  interest 
on  the  money.  Now  that  same  land  is  worth  two 
hundred    dollars    an   acre. 

For  a  time  I  worked  in  the  Journal  printing  office 
for  S.  V.  B.  Noel,  who,  I  think,  was  the  publisher 
of  the  Journal,  and  also  printed  a  free-soil  paper.  A 
part  of  my  duty  was  to  deliver  those  papers  to  sub- 
scribers, who  treated  me  civilly,  but  when  I  was 
caught  on  the  streets  of  Indianapolis  with  the  pa- 
pers in  my  hand  I  was  sure  of  abuse  from  some 
one,  and  a  number  of  times  narrowly  escaped  per- 
sonal violence.  In  the  office  I  worked  as  roller  boy, 
but  known  as  "the  devil,"  a  term  that  annoyed  me 
not  a  little.  The  pressman  was  a  man  by  the  name 
of  Wood.  In  the  same  room  was  a  power  press, 
the  power  being  a  stalwart  negro  who  turned  a  crank. 
We  used  to  race  with  the  power  press,  when  I  would 
fly  the  sheets,  that  is,  take  them  off  when  printed 
with  one  hand  and  roll  the  type  with  the  other.  This 
so  pleased  Noel  that  he  advanced  my  wages  to  $1.50 
a  week. 

The  present  generation  can  have  no  conception  of 
the  brutal  virulence  of  the  advocates  of  slavery 
against  the  "nigger"  and  "nigger  lovers,"  as  all  were 
known  who  did  not  join  in  the  crusade  against  the 
negroes. 

One  day  we  heard  a  commotion  on  the  streets,  and 
upon  inquiry  were  told  that  "they  had  just  killed 
a  nigger  up  the  street,  that's  all,"  and  went  back  to 
work  shocked,  but  could  do  nothing.  But  when  a 
little  later  word  came  that  it  was  Wood's  brother 
that  had  led  the  mob  and  that  it  was  "old  Jimmy 
Blake's  man"  (who  was  known  as  a  sober,  inof- 
fensive colored  man)  consternation  seized  Wood  as 
with  an  iron  grip.  His  grief  was  inconsolable.  The 
negro  had  been  set  upon  by  the  mob  just  because 

—141— 


he  was  a  negro,  and  for  no  other  reason,  and  brutal- 
ly murdered.  That  murder,  coupled  with  the  abuse 
I  had  received  at  the  hands  of  this  same  element, 
set  me  to  thinking  and  I  then  and  there  embraced 
the  anti-slavery  doctrines  and  have  ever  after  ad- 
hered to  them. 

One  of  the  subscribers  to  whom  I  delivered  that 
anti-slavery  paper  was  Henry  Ward  Beecher,  who 
had  then  not  attained  the  fame  that  came  to  him 
later  in  life,  but  to  whom  I  became  attached  by  his 
kind  treatment  and  gentle  words  he  always  found 
time  to  utter.  He  was  then,  I  think,  the  pastor  of 
the  Congregational  Church  that  faced  the  "Gover- 
nor's circle.''  The  church  has  long  since  been  torn 
down. 

One  episode  of  my  life  I  remember  because  I 
thought  my  parents  were  in  the  wrong.  Vocal  music 
was  taught  in  singing  schools,  almost,  I  might  say, 
as  regular  as  day  schools.  I  was  passionately  fond 
of  music,  and  before  the  change  came  had  a  splendid 
alto  voice,  and  became  a  leader  in  my  part  of  the 
class.  This  coming  to  the  notice  of  the  trustees  of 
Beecher's  church,  an  effort  was  made  to  have  me 
join  the  choir.  Mother  first  objected  because  my 
clothes  were  not  good  enough,  whereupon  an  offer 
was  made  to  suitably  clothe  me  and  pay  something 
besides;  but  father  objected  because  he  did  not  want 
me  to  listen  to  preaching  other  than  the  sect  (Camp- 
bellite)  to  which  he  belonged.  The  incident  set  me 
to  thinking,  and  finally  drove  me,  young  as  I  was, 
into  the  liberal  faith,  though  I  dared  not  openly  es- 
pouse it.  In  those  days  many  ministers  openly 
preached  of  endless  punishment  in  a  lake  of  fire,  but 
I  never  could  believe  that  doctrine,  and  yet  their 
words  would  carry  terror  into  my  heart.  The  ways 
of  the  world  are  better  now  in  this,  as  in  many  other 
respects. 

Another  episode  of  my  life  while  working  in  the 
printing  office  I  have  remembered  vividly  all  these 
years.  During  the  campaign  of  1844  the  Whigs  held 
a  second  gathering  on  the  Tippecanoe  battle-ground. 
It  could  hardly  be  called  a  convention.     A  better 

—142— 


name  for  the  gathering  would  be  a  political  camp- 
meeting.  The  people  came  in  wagons,  on  horse- 
back, a-foot, — any  way  to  get  there — and  camped 
just  like  people  used  to  do  in  their  religious  camp- 
meetings.  The  journeymen  printers  of  the  Journal 
office  planned  to  go  in  a  covered  dead-ax  wagon,  and 
signified  they  would  make  a  place  for  the  "devil,"  if 
his  parents  would  let  him  go  along.  This  was  speed- 
ily arranged  wjth  mother,  who  always  took  charge  of 
such  rnatters.  The  proposition  coming  to  Noel's  ears 
he  said  for  the  men  to  print  me  some  campaign 
songs,  which  they  did  with  a  will.  Wood  running 
them  off  the  press  after  night  while  I  rolled  the  type 
for  him.  My!  wasn't  I  the  proudest  boy  that  ever 
walked  the  earth?  Visions  of  a  pocket  full  of  money 
haunted  me  almost  day  and  night  until  we  arrived 
on  the  battlefield.  But  lo  and  behold,  nobody 
would  pay  any  attention  to  me.  Bands  of  music 
were  playing  here  and  there;  glee  clubs  would  sing 
and  march  first  on  one  side  of  the  ground  and  then 
the  other;  processions  were  marching  and  the  crowds 
surging,  making  it  necessary  for  one  to  look  out 
and  not  get  run  over.  Coupled  with  this,  the  rain 
would  pour  down  in  torrents,  but  the  marching  and 
countermarching  went  on  all  the  same  and  continued 
for  a  week.  An  elderly  journeyman  printer  named 
May,  who  in  a  way  stood  sponser  for  our  party,  told 
me  if  I  would  get  up  on  the  fence  and  sing  my  songs 
the  people  would  buy  them,  and  sure  enough  the 
crowds  came  and  I  sold  every  copy  I  had,  and  went 
home  with  eleven  dollars  in  my  pocket,  the  richest 
boy  on  earth. 

It  seems  though  that  I  was  not  "cut  out"  for  a 
printer.  My  inclination  ran  more  to  the  open  air  life, 
and  so  father  placed  me  on  the  farm  as  soon  as  the 
purchase  was  made  and  left  me  in  full  charge  of  the 
work,  while  he  turned  his  attention  to  milling.  Be 
it  said  that  I  early  turned  my  attention  to  the  girls 
as  well  as  to  the  farm,  married  young — before  I  had 
reached  the  age  of  twenty-one,  and  can  truly  say  this 
was  a  happy  venture. 

—143— 


Emigration  of  1843. 

Nearly  seventy  years  ago  (1843)  a  company  num- 
bering nearly  one  thousand  strong,  of  men,  women, 
and  children,  with  over  five  thousand  cattle,  guided 
by  such  intrepid  men  as  Peter  Burnett  (afterwards 
first  governor  of  California),  Jesse  Applegate,  al- 
ways a  first  citizen  in  the  community  where  he  had 
cast  his  lot,  and  James  W.  Nesbit.  afterwards  one 
of  the  first  senators  from  the  State  of  Oregon,  made 
their  way  with  ox  and  cow  teams  toilsomely  up  the 
Platte  valley,  up  the  Sweetwater,  through  the  South 
Pass  of  the  Rocky  mountains,  and  across  rivers  to 
Fort  Hall  on  the  upper  waters  of  Snake  river.  This 
far  there  had  been  a  few  traders'  wagons  and  the 
track  had  been  partially  broken  for  this  thousand- 
mile  stretch.  Not  so  for  the  remainder  of  their 
journey  of  near  eight  hundred  miles.  Not  a  wheel 
had  been  turned  west  of  this  post  (then  the  abiding 
place  for  the  "watch  dogs"  of  the  British,  the  Hud- 
son Bay  Company,  who  cast  a  covetous  eye  upon 
the  great  Oregon  country),  except  the  Whitman  cart, 
packed  a  part  of  the  way,  but  finally  stalled  at  Fort 
Boise,  a  few  hundred  miles  to  the  west. 

This  great  company,  encouraged  and  guided  by 
Whitman,  took  their  lives  in  their  hands  when  they 
cut  loose  from  Fort  Hall  and  headed  their  teams 
westward  over  an  almost  unexplored  region  with 
only  Indians'  or  traders'  horseback  trails  before  them 
and  hundreds  of  miles  of  mountainous  country  to 
traverse. 

HORACE    GREELEY'S    OPINION. 

"For  what,"  wrote  Horace  Greeley  in  his  paper, 
the  New  York  Tribune,  July  22,  1843,  "do  they  brave 
the.  desert,  the  wilderness,  the  savage,  the  snowy 
precipices  of  the  Rocky  mountains,  the  weary  sum- 
mer march,  the  storm-drenched  bivouac  and  the 
gnawings  of  famine?  This  emigration  of  more  than 
a  thousand  persons  in  one  body  to  Oregon  wears  an 
aspect  of  insanity." 

The  answer  came  back  in  due  time,  "for  what" 
they  braved  the  dangers  of  a  trip  across  the  Plains 

—144— 


to  an  almost  unknown  land,  in  petitions  praying  for 
help  to  hold  the  country  they  had.  as  we  might  say, 
seized;  for  recognition  as  American  citizens  to  be 
taken  under  the  fostering  care  of  the  home  govern- 
ment that  their  effort  might  not  fail.  And  yet  five 
long  years  passed  and  no  relief  came.  An  army 
had  been  assembled,  an  Indian  war  fought,  when,  at 
the  dying  moment  of  Congress,  under  the  stress  of 
public  opinion,  aroused  by  the  atrocious  massacre  of 
Whitman,  party  passion  on  the  slavery  question  was 
smothered,  the  long-looked  for  relief  came,  and  the 
Oregon  bill  was  passed.  They  had  "held  the  Fort" 
til  victory  perched  upon  their  banner,  and  the  foun- 
dation was  laid  for  three  great  free  stat>fs  to  enter 
the  Union. 

No  more  heroic  deed  is  of  record  than  this,  to  span 
the  remainder  of  a  continent  by  the  wagon  track. 
Failure  meant  intense  suffering  to  all  and  death  to 
many.  There  was  no  retreat.  They  had,  in  a  fig- 
urative sense,  "burned  their  bridges  behind  them  " 
Go  on  they  must,  or  perish. 

Cause  That   Saved   Oregon  From  British   Rule. 

When  this  train  safely  arrived,  the  preponderance 
of  the  American  settlers  was  so  great  that  there  was 
no  more  question  as  to  who  should  temporarily  pos- 
sess the  Oregon  country.  An  American  provisional 
government  was  immediately  organized,  the  British 
rule  was  challenged,  and  Oregon  was  "saved,"  and 
gave  three  great  states  to  the  Union,  and  a  large 
part  of  two  more. 

Other  ox  team  brigades  came.  Fourteen  hundred 
people  in  1844  followed  the  track  made  in  1843.  and 
three  thousand  in  1845.  and  on  August  15  of  that 
year  the  Hudson  Bay  Company  accepted  the  protec- 
tion of  the  provisional  government  and  paid  taxes 
to  its  ofKcers. 

Shall  we  let  the  memory  of  such  men  and 
women  smolder  in  our  minds  and  sink  into  ob- 
livion? Shall  we  refuse  to  recognize  their  great 
courageous    acts    and    fail    to    do    honor    to    their 

— 14S- 


memory  We  erect  monuments  to  commemorate  the 
achievements  of  grim  war  and  to  mark  the  bloody 
battlefields;  then  why  shall  we  not  honor  those  who 
went  out  to  the  battle  of  the  Plains? — a  battle  of 
peace,  to  be  sure,  yet  a  battle  that  called  for  as 
heroic  deeds  and  for  as  great  sacrifice  as  any  of  war 
and  fraught  with  as  momentous  results  as  the  most 
sanguinary  battles  of  history.  The  people  that  held 
Oregon  with  such  firm  grip  till  the  sacrifice  came 
that  ended  all  contention  deserve  a  tender  place  in 
the  hearts  of  the  citizens  of  this  great  common- 
wealth. 

A  glimpse  into  the  life  of  the  struggling  mass  of 
the  first  wagon  train  is  both  interesting  and  useful, 
interesting  in  the  study  of  social  life  of  the  past, 
and  useful  from  a  historical  point  of  view. 

JESSE    APPLEGATE'S    EPIC. 

Jesse  Applegate,  leader  of  the  "cow  column,'  after 
the  division  into  two  companies,  many  years  after- 
wards wrote  of  the  trip,  and  his  account  has  been 
published  and  republished  and  may  be  found  in  full 
in  the  Oregon  Historical  Quarterly.  His  writing  is 
accepted  as  classic,  aad  his  facts,  from  first  hands, 
as  true  to  the  letter. 

Portraying  the  scenes  with  the  "cow  column"  for 
one  day  he  wrote: 

"It  is  4:00  o'clock  a.  m. ;  the  sentinels  on  duty 
have  discharged  their  rifles — the  signal  that  the  hours 
of  sleep  are  over — and  every  wagon  and  tent  is  pour- 
ing forth  its  night  tenants,  and  slow  kindling  smokes 
begin  lazily  to  rise  and  float  away  in  the  morning  air 
Sixty  men  start  from  the  corral,  spreading  as  they 
make  through  the  vast  herd  of  cattle  and  horses  that 
make  a  semi-circle  around  the  encampment,  the  most 
distant   perhaps   two   miles   away. 

"The  herders  pass  the  extreme  verge  and  care- 
fully examine  for  trails  beyond  to  see  that  none  of 
the  animals  have  strayed  or  been  stolen  during  the 
night.  This  morning  no  trails  lead  beyond  the  out- 
side animals  \.a  sight,  and  by  five  o'clock  the  herders 
begin  to  contract  the  great  moving  circle,  and  the 

—146— 


well-trained  animals  move  slowly  towards  camp, 
clipping  here  and  there  a  thistle  or  a  tempting  bunch 
of  grass  on  the  way.  In  about  an  hour  five  thou- 
sand animals  are  close  up  to  the  encampment,  and 
the  teamsters  arc  busy  selecting  their  teams  and 
driving  them  inside  the  corral  to  be  yoked.  The 
corral  is  a  circle  one  hundred  yards  deep  formed  with 
wagons  connected  strongly  with  each  other;  the 
wagon  in  the  rear  being  connected  with  the  wagon 
in  front  by  its  tongue  and  ox  chains.  It  is  a  strong 
barrier  that  the  most  vicious  ox  can  not  break,  and 
in  case  of  attack  from  the  Sioux  would  be  no  con- 
temptible intrenchment. 

"From  6:00  to  7:00  o'clock  is  the  busy  time;  break- 
fast is  to  be  eaten,  the  tents  struck,  the  wagons 
loaded  and  the  teams  yoked  and  brought  up  in  readi- 
ness to  be  attached  to  their  respective  wagons.  All 
know  when,  at  7:00  o'clock,  the  signal  to  march 
sounds,  that  those  not  ready  to  take  their  places  in 
the  line  of  march  must  fall  into  the  dusty  rear  for 
the  day.  There  are  sixty  wagons.  They  have  been 
divided  into  fifteen  divisions  or  platoons  of  four 
wagons  each,  and  each  platoon  is  entitled  to  lead  in 
its  turn.  The  leading  platoon  today  wi!i  be  the  rear 
one  tomorrow,  and  will  bring  up  the  rear,  unless 
some  teamster,  through  indolence  or  negligence,  has 
lost  his  place  in  the  line,  and  is  condemned  to  that 
uncomfortable  post.  It  is  within  ten  minutes  of 
7:00;  the  corral,  but  now  a  strong  barricade,  is 
everywhere  broken,  the  teams  being  attached  to  the 
wagons.  The  women  and  children  have  taken  their 
places  in  them.  The  pilot  (a  borderer  who  has 
passed  his  life  on  the  verge  of  civilization,  and  has 
been  chosen  to  his  post  of  leader  from  his  knowledge 
of  the  savage  and  his  experience  in  travel  through 
roadless  wastes)  stands  ready,  in  the  midst  of  his 
pioneers  and  aids,  to  mount  and  lead  the  way.  Ten  or 
fifteen  young  men,  not  to-day  on  duty,  form  another 
cluster.  They  are  ready  to  start  on  a  buffalo  hunt, 
are  well-mounted  and  well-armed,  as  they  need  to  be. 
for  the  unfriendly  Sioux  has  driven  the  buffalo  out  of 
the  Platte,  and  the  hunters  must  ride  fifteen  or  twen- 

—147— 


ty  miles  to  find  them.  The  cow  drivers  are  hasten- 
ing, as  they  get  ready,  to  the  rear  of  their  charge,  to 
collect  and.  prepare  them  for  the  day's  march. 

"It  is  on  the  stroke  of  7:00;  the  rush  to  and  fro, 
the  cracking  of  whips,  the  loud  command  to  oxen, 
and  what  seemed  to  be  the  inextricable  confusion  of 
the  last  ten  minutes  has  ceased.  Fortunately  every- 
one has  been  found  and  every  teamster  is  at  his  post. 
The  clear  notes  of  a  trumpet  sound  in  the  front; 
the  pilot  and  his  guards  mount  their  horses;  the  lead- 
ing divisions  of  the  wagons  move  out  of  the  encamp- 
men  and  take  up  the  line  of  march;  the  rest  fall  into 
their  places  with  the  precision  of  clockwork,  until  the 
spot  so  lately  full  of  life  sinks  back  into  that  soli- 
tude that  seems  to  reign  over  the  broad  plain  and 
rushing  river  as  the  caravan  draws  its  lazy  length 
towards  the  distant  El  Dorado. 

"The  pilot,  by  measuring  the  ground  and  timing 
the  speed  of  the  horses,  has  determined  the  rate  of 
each,  so  as  to  enable  him  to  select  the  nooning  place 
as  nearly  to  the  requisite  grass  and  water  can  be 
had  at  the  end  of  five  hours'  travel  of  the  wagons. 
To-day,  the  ground  being  favorable,  little  time  has 
been  lost  in  preparing  for  the  road,  so  that  he  and 
his  pioneers  are  at  the  nooning  place  an  hour  in  ad- 
vance of  the  wagons,  which  time  is  spent  in  preparing 
convenient  watering  places  for  the  wagons  and  dig- 
ging little  wells  near  the  bank  of  the  Platte.  As  the 
teams  are  not  unyoked,  but  simply  turned  loose  from 
the  wagons,  a  corral  is  not  formed  at  noon,  but  the 
wagons  are  drawn  up  in  columns,  four  abreast,  the 
leading  wagon  of  each  platoon  on  the  left,  the 
platoons  being  formed  with  that  in  view.  This 
brings  friends  together  at  noon  as  well  as  at  night. 

"To-day  an  extra  session  of  the  council  is  being 
held  to  settle  a  dispute  that  does  not  admit  of  de- 
lay, between  a  proprietor  and  a  young  man  who  has 
undertaken  to  do  a  man's  service  on  the  journey  for 
bed  and  board.  Many  such  cases  exist  and  much  in- 
terest is  taken  in  the  manner  in  which  this  high 
court,  from  which  there  is  no  appeal,  will  defiine  the 
rights  of  each  party  in  such  engagements.    The  coun- 

—148— 


cil  was  a  high  court  in  the  most  exalted  sense.  It 
was  a  senate  composed  of  the  ablest  and  most  re- 
spected fathers  of  the  emigration.  It  exercised  both 
legislative  and  judicial  powers  and  its  laws  and  de- 
cisions proved  equal,  and  worthy  of  the  high  trust 
reposed  in  it.         .     . 

"It  is  now  one  o'clock;  the  bugle  has  sounded 
and  the  caravan  has  resumed  its  westward  joufney. 
It  is  in  the  same  order,  but  the  evening  is  far  less 
animated  than  the  morning  march.  A  drowsiness  has 
apparently  fallen  on  man  and  beast;  the  teamsters 
drop  asleep  on  their  perches  and  the  words  of  com- 
mand are  now  addressed  to  the  slowly  creeping  oxen 
in  the  soft  tenor  of  women  or  the  piping  treble  of 
children,  while  the  snores  of  the  teamsters  make 
a  droning  accompaniment 

"The  sun  is  now  getting  low  in  the  west  and  at 
length  the  painstaking  pilot  is  standing  ready  to 
conduct  the  train  in  the  circle  which  he  has  previous- 
ly measured  and  marked  out,  which  is  to  form  the  in- 
variable fortification  for  the  night.  The  leading  wag- 
ons follow  him  so  nearly  around  the  circle  that  but 
a  wagon  length  separates  them.  Each  wagon  fol- 
lows in  its  track,  the  rear  closing  on  the  front,  until 
its  tongue  and  ox  chains  will  perfectly  reach  from 
one  to  the  other;  and  so  accurate  (is)  the  measure 
and  perfect  the  practice  that  the  hindmost  wagon 
of  the  train  always  precisely  closes  the  gateway.  As 
each  wagon  is  brought  into  position  it  is  dropped 
from  the  team  (the  teams  being  inside  the  circle), 
the  team  is  unyoked  and  the  yoke  and  chains  are 
used  to  connect  the  wagon  strongly  with  that  in  its 
front.  Within  ten  minutes  frim  the  time  the  leading 
wagon  halted  the  barricade  is  formed,  the  teams  un- 
yoked and  driven  out  to  pasture.  Everyone  is  busy 
preparing  fires  ...  to  cook  the  evening  meal, 
pitching  tents  and  otherwise  preparing  for  the  night. 
.  .  .  The  watches  begin  at  8:00  o'clock  p.  m  and 
end  at  4:00  a.  m." 


—149— 


Friends  who  have  read  "The  Ox  Team,"  that  has 
now  passed  through  five  editions  (24,000  copies), 
should  understand  that  the  present  reprint  (of  10,000 
copies)  is  merely  a  change  of  title  and  printed 
under  another  form  for  a  cheaper  book,  to  encour- 
age the  sale  to  the  general  public  without  reference 
to  profit. 

A  bill  is  now  pending  in  Congress  appropriating 
$100,000  to  complete  the  work  of  marking  the  Trail, 
and  with  the  hope  this  will  involve  a  preliminary 
survey  for  a  national  highway  as  a  memorial  road 
to  the  pioneers.  We  do  not  expect  this  to  pass 
until  the  second  session  of  the  present  Congress, 
and  after  the  election,  and  know  by  experience  we 
have  no  certain  assurance  that  favorable  action  will 
then  be  taken. 

Notwithstanding  the  unusually  heavy  sale  of  my 
books,  the  work  on  the  Trail  has  not  been  self- 
supporting  nor  finished.  We  have  made  a  begin- 
ning, leaving  much  yet  undone,  and  that  should  be 
done  now  to  insure  final   success. 

We  are  now  in  urgent  need  of  funds  to  continue 
this  work. 

After  the  lapse  of  five  years  of  effort,  without 
soliciting  or  receiving  contributions  (save  $2.25  in 
the  aggregate  from  three  persons),  I  now  ask  the 
friends  to  contribute  such  sums  as  may  be  con- 
venient. 

Friends  who  may  wish  to  contribute,  or  secure 
copies  of  my  books,  can  do  so  by  addressing 

EZRA  MEEKER, 
1124  38th   Ave.   N., 
Seattle,  Wash. 
Or  in  care  of 
MISS  ELIZABETH  GENTRY, 

2600  Troost  Ave.,  Kansas  City,  Mo. 

—150- 


II 


S  reverence  for  the  past  dies 
out  in  the  breasts  of  a  genera- 
tion, so  likewise  patriotism 
wanes.  In  the  measure  that 
the  love  of  the  history  of  the  past  dies, 
so  likewise  do  the  higher  aspirations  for 
the  future.  To  keep  the  flower  of  patriot- 
ism alive,  we  must  keep  the  memory  of 
the  past  vividly  in  mind. 


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